I sit on my pad, paddle with my pen,
Race at a slow pace, but I have to win.
But, I have no wind, and my sail is thin,
Since I have no friends, just bottles of gin.
Just bottled it in, the habit of men;
The habit of men, the habit of sin!
This rabbit has been on that wheel that spins,
A trend that keeps spinning, and has no end.
Therefore, it will not let me make amends.
I bend, and break, and take it on the chin,
Until they count to ten; Knocked out my grin,
Then separated the frame from the lens,
Then separated the son from his kin,
Thus, left without the helping hands they lend.