“Who are you?” asked the flower in a clutching sort of voice;
The grass took up the question with a soft, whispering noise.
“Who am I?” I replied, and chuckled at their ignorance,
“The garden guardian!” I answered, “Why, what foolishness.”

“I am the one as tends you, feeds you compost, helps you grow,
I am the one that cares for you, if you really must know.”
The flower murmured gratitude in gentle tones at this,
The grass looked up, quite content, as it swelled with innocence.

Yet suddenly a bee chimed in and, angry, scoffed “You lie!”
He turned to the flower and asked, “Haven’t you wondered why
This ‘guardian’ (or so she claims) has trimmed off all your seeds,
If she in truth cares only about tending to your needs?”

The flower looked anxious at this, and eyed me warily,
The grass muttered under its breath that it was plain to see
That I was just a liar (as they’d really always known)
That I had always mowed it down as fast as it could grow.

Their murmurs vexed me no end; I rushed to my own defense -
In somber tones I addressed the crowd by the picket fence:
“If I have ever harmed you,” I said in one harassed breath,
“It was only that you might be healthier in the end.”

The flower frowned, confused, and waved her petals all about.
The grass, its leader indisposed, at last began to shout,
“You fool!” it cried, “you utter fool, don’t you know that you should
Have let us decide for ourselves what was for our own good?”