Walking through the rows 

He chooses my fate 

Must I be pruned back for others? 

Over here, farmer. 

Tend, water, feed me 

save me from wilting 

Impotently standing in his own manure 

Neglecting his vines to drink deeply in satisfaction, 

The tender roots die 

One cold spell 

Squashed between his tiny toes 

Delighting in my downfall 

I am just another vine.