The hyacinths and irises
were holding court one day,
their topsoil fresh, their dead leaves pinched,
for optimal display.
No blemish marred their blooms or leaves,
no stem stood less than straight,
no hapless bug who launched attack
had lived to tell his fate.
Their garden like a fortress stood,
well guarded and well kept,
until that day the "weed" encroached,
his bound'ries overstepped.
The iris, with pomposity,
let out a sigh and frowned,
when first she spied the yellow mop
of hair poked from the ground.
"You impish weed, impertinent,
how dare you interlope?
You've earned no place 'mongst perfect rows,
your droopy stem a joke."
This dandelion, maligned and spurned,
could think of no retort,
for it had sought but modest home,
not stolen seat in court.
But worry not for outcomes sad -
this tale has happy end.
A child stooped down and chose pure gold
to pick for his best friend.
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