I wish I was an apple on a tree.

If I was, I'd let you take a bite out of me.

Wait one day, my seedling, you'll see,

mommy plant you carefully on her knee.

The breeze sways you back and forth,

and you grow towards

the star to the north.

So, you'll always know your worth.

There are many apples in the orchard.

Some trees grow shorter,

some are on the border.

Most are neither seen

nor heard.

The sweetest ones are preferred.

You'll be the juiciest one there, and

the other apples won't think it's fair.

They'll be green and sour, everywhere,

leaving bitterness in the air.

See, your red hues

contradict their chartreuse.

My child, my muse —

help me sing the blues.

Do it for every apple before you and

they'll never let you bruise.