The Defective Few

We joke a bout our own demise,
And find comfort in the hell we rise.
Share tales of people we slew,
Or laugh with those who do,
Because we are the defective few.

Here we all have a place,
The path to perfection is never a race,
Namely because it's never followed.
And in our halls so hallowed,
We are the one who never mellowed.

You're free to make fun of us,
But no matter how big your fuss,
In our halls we go about our day,
With our Shields, words you say,
Will never come to heart, as they are broken where they lay.

You wander a bout me as well.
May have asked if I believe in hell,
Have pondered what it is I do,
And I'll shout proudly as if on cue,
I'm one of the defective few.