There are loads of them,
All blooming from the same stem,

Their flowers all different colors,
Although they spew forth from the same indignant mothers,

No criticism could wilt their style,
There is nothing in themselves they deem vile,

Perfection and absolute is their will,
Your voice dying in their truth as they move in for the kill,

They gather round the hanging platform,
They win by a landslide; they take by storm

A/N;  *whine… grr… cry… pout*  *eats a car whole*