He decided to give winning advice,

A farce, by accident to a child, a perfect device;

And he thought he was the mastermind,

That talent was only his to find.

He used,

Abused,

These blank slates, pure minds,

Revenue, for the ego, consuming, leaving rinds

In tuxedo shackles and alligator purse binds

After all, he had discovered them.

He now clothed them in skirts with no top and no hem,

Fashionably torn; Prodigy, just like them.

While flashes and mics pried,

They shied and tried

To be better, to revive their soul, their heart, because it was his right.

They pushed to be allowed to use their talent,

But he made them wait: months, years.

Now they're old, a waste, nothing to their name.

All because it was his right.

His right over them. His right as the mastermind.