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.