It jumps out of a womb
Writhing and screaming.
Multiple hands are needed to calm it down enough to hold
And move it down the queue.

The give it a label,
This will be used to identify it
It's dubbed a collection of vowels and consonants it will answer to once it leaves the depot
And begins it's travel down the queue.

They persuade it's firt word in excitement,
The route of cheers beginning,
Such smiles when it gets it right
It looks like it's just in time,
To move down the queue.

The next stage is greeted
It takes five stable steps, with the help of fixed eyes pulsing in anticipation
"Well done,"
They cheer with a forward pressing hand on it's back
Just another two steps,
And it will make it down the queue.

Through many checks and cheers,
It makes it well and intact past the markers it sees on the map it holds
Just one more,
They call it the crux of the queue.

It gets there and they cheer,
Sounds that only ring northward,
It hears of gowns and caps shinier than the one's it has barely known a second of wearing
Just another two years,
It's progressing down the queue.

It gets there
And they cheer it on
It knows what's coming next
Barrels straight down without needing to be told,
Just a little further up the queue.

Finally first in line
They pick it's last suit.
No persuasion is needed to tell it's time to return
It doesn't even ask about warranty
It jumps out of a womb
And limps silently to a tomb.
Where it lies.
A soul stripped product,
Of the queue.

Arrived at the trenches of departure
It has enough remaining breath to look around for the waving hands it once knew
The final cheers.
But no one is present with it.

Another has been birthed in arrival
Being guided to,
The queue.