When I was at the ripe age of 7 years old,
I grew accustomed to sleeping cold.
The feeling of numbness and it's pins.
I learned my hatred was rather intrinsic.

Don't bother fixing me, it's rather pointless,
A pencil with no point, a coin pouch coinless,
Just don't leave for I may just break,
And I'm rather terrified of the oceans wake,
with the raging sea and chomping sharks,
our power outages with lines aspark.

I've grown rather cold like winter nights,
Feverish children surviving for the fight.