They come marching . . . The night before an exam,  interview,  festival or  celebration.
They call the visit a mere chance
With no crooked intentions.  
In human clothes when they come
They trade on my pains.
A machine  of  exchange they run,
To the netherworlds beyond my gains.
Every pain on my nerve grows their ego-filled pleasures.
Cruel, sadistic stones they are.
Never know a human child!