A shovel in one hand, a seed in another,
I know it'll be a flower, not anything other.
Though, you ask me what it is I think I'll see,
"A flower.", and you say "How can that be?".

I know what I'm planting; but you question it so,
If you're not the one planting it how would you know?
You say I'm wrong about what it'll grow into,
You keep implying and I start to think it may be true.

I no longer show you any of the flowers I grow,
When I did, you refused to see what I showed.
I'll keep then a secret, mine from now on,
It's no longer your place to tell me what I plant is "wrong".