This world is run by a maker at heart,
Who at times likes to play his part.
However, don't expect him to get a clue,
A hint to why you are so blue.
He winds up our gears, and cogs,
Setting up our days like Lincoln logs.
This world is run by a crazy man,
A skeptic by trade, who does what he can.
He thinks we are not the same,
He generalizes us and we are all to blame.
Who is this man of the hour?
He watches all from his strange tall tower.
He will tell his name to you,
"Hello, I am stereotype, how do you do?"