In fertile soil you found yourself
and so roots you employed to ground you
and shaking you spread your arms to sun

Over night and day you grew
No one disturbing your peace
settling yourself firmly within
soil you now called your own

Oh weed then I came along and plucked you
your paltry shoots did not defend you
Nor your roots prevent me
from your doom

I do not wish you ill. It is merely a matter
of circumstance