Your lives tick by, Like flies on the wing, Your puppets on string, Poor little things. A sad symptom of faliure, of an intelligent race, Too slow for the pace, Now you live in disgrace. Have you been through the mold, To come out the same, Only different in name, As your charachters wane. Have you been pushed, and shoved, And humiliated? Till you gave up crying. Till you abandoned the dying. Have you seen the machine, Of which you'll soon be a part? once they tear up your heart, And rip you to shreds.
