Think of this, a weed still has its flowers
They may be small, like ivy they may spread
We must display ourselves, not cower
Until the moment comes when we are dead
Does it matter that you hate my guts?
That you dislike my face so pink and white?
I am happy to deflect your bombs so hot
The nuclear option seems so very trite
I am me and I may be a weed
The definition falters as we talk
Let us be judged by all our deeds
The sparrow must be careless of the hawk
I no longer want your letters vile
Be gone from me and you will make me smile