"Life is but a walking shadow...A poor player...A tale told by an idiot"
And his name was Colin.
Every day, in and out, day and night,
He pressed buttons for his job,
For the gluttons.
The place he thought in the rooms.
His day life was told, in hymns and stories,
Of men and women and all their glories.
The button was for the wild and bold.

At night the button was for hope in the dark,
Men and women praying for a spark,
So they could cope.
For their lives, were a stain,
On their world of grains,
The world of hives.

Colin sat at his desk,
Pressing buttons pleasing,
to the people appeasing,
His face a mask.
A day goes by,
The buttons do not stop,
His heart as a whole a spinning top,
His mind does not comply.
Showing the eyes his heart a whole,
"How may I save my soul?"
They laughed those guys.
Those glowing, sneering, smelly eyes,
For they have seen the pain of the idiotic walking shame.
He, Colin the poor,
Stopped the buttons,
He was a bore,
To the men, the eyes
On the walking stalking skies
There were ten.
Colin had no care for those men,
Those men standing there.

He stopped the buttons to live his life,
To keep from the place writhing.
Now Colin is free,
From the pain for he,
The button presser,
Was finally slain.