Shackle to our riches, we strive to trive. Zoneing in on the jewles we wish to behold. Honeing and lerking through our work. blinded to the storks smerk. Dishing out paper, we hand over our forks for sporks. Chasing bread for sport. just short of the perfect score, we feel scorned. Wish we could be reborn. Or given a second chance, with the a vision of the first glance. Done with tradition, the mission is a constant contradiction.
