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Meet this boy named Ore,
He is a down-to-earth person where kindness kept at his core,
Besmirch in September.
Well, his kind of story was piqued and in humdrum,
It is a kind of fact where alluded to and drowned in rum.
Since it is written in the cards and known as dogma,
You'll see this prodigy kept in his pocket with a dilemma.
Stern and surrounded by hypercritical personalities,
Born with dreams but
guarded-like with
bystanders wrapped up with the tease.
It feels and looks like he was wearing squalor in sordid,
Charred on his mind for he was wasted, hatred indeed.
In contempt but not, he's still full of human warmth,
Jotting some hopes without imprecations where he has dreamt.
But he admitted then, albeit filled up with some kind of fallacious,
It's already human nature even in an inhumane action to lose.
To lose some kind of accoladed and pirouetting dreamer,
In fatal perhaps but not, he is just wishing it'll be over,
forever.
