Dying To Win All the Time
Eyeing every trophy is a sin,
Always craving it a prickly pin;
A critic right to raise a din:
“A propensity fit for our Dust Bin!”
For those who often seek to win
Force our hands to support either chin
And our skin pricks with a pin …
An obsession I won’t excuse my kin,
As doing so quite a kin
To eating from a rusted tin
Or relishing a non-nourishing fin.
Order I shall such a kin
To pay with an apologizing gin;
Dying to win all the time, sin.
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