Some people don't like a poem that rhymes.
The wind chimes.
Exposing our crimes.
Like snitches dropping dimes.
Get me a tequila with limes!
I've tried to change how many times.
Without a voice were all similar painted mimes.
But were all different people many different kinds.
And all I keep hearing is nothing but whines.
So lets all dress to the nines.
And take a vacation and head to the pines.
Or we'll turn in to robots walking in lines.