There once was a man who gave it his all,
In the end he did still fall.
He tried to be his very best.
He took and aced his every test.
That man loved to rhyme,
A, B, A, B, perfect every time.
His mind grew strong and his heart grew weak,
Over time, his soul grew meek.
He always went into his own little zone.
It was the place he called his own.
The sorrow grew as time went by,
And slowly but surely he began to die,
He was always so very lost,
And in the end he paid the cost.
Off in his little daze he never did see.
All the things he did mss are now just history.
