A man, as mad as any hatter,
Once said that mud is misplaced matter;
And he would argue, I suppose,
A weed is any plant that grows
Outside its own especial sphere-
I trust I make my meaning clear.

And you are wondering, no doubt,
What all this bother is about.
While walking down my garden way,
I found a buttercup today;
A lovely thing it was, indeed,
Any yet, in theory, a weed.

"Alas, poor Buttercup," I said,
"Already you're as good as dead.
If Mary sees you, Buttercup,
Your number is distinctly up.
What can be done?" Just then, my wife
Swooped forward with her pruning-knife.

"Observe," I cried, "dear wife of mine,
Observe this Lesser Celandine,
The fairest flower by poets sung,
In every land and every tongue..."
But Mary merely shook her head:
"It is a Buttercup, she said.