Like rams there, we have our quiet ones too,
Acting type yet to ripe, but fell from sky blue,
Making most men ask mind for more,
Answers to curtains of doubt drawn before,
Wondering if they’ve once lived here,
And they already know it is fairly unfair,
Rain of care is one we await its fall,
To unbridled tongues, hand a pen to all,
‘That man no they reserved, man is depressed’;
But we assume he’s matured, so we stay impressed,
Till pressure, the rich buyer, purchases his best,
I believe we not unaware of what is the rest.
A trillion depressed people await you to speak,
Oh! Not to hear you, but for them to reach their peak.