A circle, oh how profound,
Perfectly pointless, spinning round and round.
Pretending to progress, but going nowhere at all,
Pandering to the masses, like a puppet on a call.
Pleased with itself, it repeats and repeats,
Picking up speed, like a train on its beats.
Pretentious and predictable, it thinks it’s so smart,
Puffing up its chest, playing a prideful part.
Perpetually pointless, it goes on and on,
Pretending to be unique, but it’s just a con.
Painfully predictable, it circles again,
Pretending to be new, but it’s just the same old game.