Candy Shop - Day 17

 Mini Eggs

Life is a fan club for a washed up band

You're forced to be enrolled in;

You're born with ten fingers to count on your hands

But a dozen's what eggs are sold in.

It won't matter how many heroes you've met

If no one picks up when you call them;

All outcomes of sex are just what you expect

(That's why you're allergic to pollen.)

Hope is the thing with a thin, sweet shell—

A wish with a chance to be true.

There must be a reason they built a hell,

but odds are it wasn't for you.