A church bulletin had a clever poem about criticism that began:
A little seed lay in the ground
And soon began to sprout;
"Now, which of all the flowers around,
Shall I," it mused, "come out?"
The seed could then be heard saying, "I don't care to be a rose. It has thorns. I have no desire to be a lily. It's too colorless. And I certainly wouldn't want to be a violet. It's too small, and it grows too close to the ground."
The poem concludes with this verse about that faultfinding seed:
And so it criticized each flower,
That supercilious seed,
Until it woke one summer hour
And found itself a weed!
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