I've got a dustbin in my room
full of all kinds of scrap.
Only if it had a mouth,
it'd revolt against my crap.

"What are the chances of being treated well?
the margin's rather steep.
This human bought me on sale,
and I was already cheap.

I sit tight, in a dark corner
of his rather well lit room,
watching him silently
spell his own inevitable doom.

I see him work, and take a 5 min break,
which turns swiftly to five hours.
I see him preparing for a physics exam,
and still thinking of flowers.

He plans to graduate with good grades,
but ends up wasting the day.
Yes he dreams, like other guys his age,
just not the same way.

They dream of power, of money, of fame,
of being able to live with ease.
He loves to dream too,
in his long sleep, that is.

He has a shelf full of books,
and I've never seen him pick up one,
except the one time when it was a magazine
and he wanted to have some fun.

And once I saw him role play
with no one else around.
In the end he lost his phone, he ringed,
but it didn't make a sound.

In this world full of deception,
how will this boy survive?
The guys his age have grown up
but he's still a kid of five!

He might think I'm disgusting
but his kind makes me sick,
or maybe I just pity him
'cause he has a tiny ****."

I have no idea what it might say
if my dustbin could speak,
but whenever I think I am alone,
it always gets a peek.

© HORIZON