There once was a boy named Pin,
Who stood on some steps with a grin.
He lurked on his perch,
With a penchant for works
And he sorely wished to be in.
He fixed his gaze on things afar,
While wishing only to play his cards,
He dreamed of what the others had,
He schemed to make them seem so bad.
The things he spewed he did not care,
He only wished he had their airs.
Comprehend, he could not
The things they did as their lot.
His eyes so bad he couldn’t see
The things they did in reality.
Poor Pin tried not to see the truth,
And in the end was quite uncouth.
The things he said, the things he did,
Puffed up himself, improved his id.
The words he spake,
Destroyed their stake,
And sealed the others’ lids.