Three rocky carvings, with rocky statures. Who sculpted us this way? One, two, three hidden statues, the only ones the sculptor never reveals.

Down to the roots they grew the same. Trees sprouted uneven through tough, dry terrain. One, two, three resisting the reign.

Rebels tied by a repeating trait. With blood in their veins they seek out their fate. One, two, three soldiers of the mind, fighting hard to obliterate the hate.

The clown that comes when his luck runs out. A sculptor no more, he changes his route. One, two, three, the only ones who see past his trickery.

So, who sculpted us this way? He did, and he can only pray. That the one, two, three won’t get to him today.