terrified tin droplets of dumbed-down rain, 
they fall and fall with nothing to gain.
tongue abreast, they succumbed to their iron pain
and never lit afire a frosty winter maim.

the voices, dimmed by a crispy train
treat not much of their often trialed game;
yet they last, persist, in their grassy plain
to fight, with right, on a universal plane.

the prismatic dance of your mirky frame
beckons five stripes bearing reality's name.
the engine of the world, fueled by the chaos game
groans, moans, and garners international fame.