When I was made
Someone must have ******* up the wiring.
There's a short in my brain,
Like water was spilled on it.
Now there's smoke pouring out my ears
And the gears stopped spinning.
I think a wire got disconnected
With the first blow I took to the head.
Now I'm smoking like a chimney,
But that's alright,
Its all electrical.

Your interest is piqued
By we the people,
The prosperous poor.
Pacified by things
As simple as passion,
We push,
Pull,
And punch
Our way to the peak.
You're puzzled
By our paedarchy
Where the puerile rule
For they are the prudent.
We are the prosperous poor,
The pauperized children,
Packing our hearts
With dreams of progress
And thoughts of prodigies.
Poor by birth,
Prosperous by personality,
We are the prosperous poor.
We, the children of poverty
Who have been pure only in heart
Will proceed
To prove that the poor
Are prosperous at heart.
The prosperous poor
Are only prosperous
Because they have felt the pain
Of the poor.