Tip toe across the floor on toes that don’t exist,
hide in silence from the door of the person you resist.
Secret schematic scoundrel to the realm of innocence,
revealing to the child that your mutiny is bliss.
Climbing slimy walls with hands that have no nails,
as mutants in square caves, wait to watch you fail.
Assembly of distorted men, who taunt, urge and exhort;
to you we passive creatures, live in a land of impossible retort.
Weakness urges us to a place filled with soft mossy hilltop lands,
an escape from dry and dusty worlds of the mutants’ famous quick sands.
But to no avail we find our clawing is weak and feeble at best,
for eventually it’s inevitable to end up like the rest.
Abandoned by intention, forced out and so forlorn,
the blameless of the past had no time to heed us warn.
Yet in the intentional escape by defenceless and insignificant souls,
a fortune is told and mutants will be condemned by their dishonourable goals.
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