• The "Happy" Thoughts
    The demonic assistants


    With blood made of cyanide
    They feed whenever people cry

    Residing in a world of hate
    Can make them quite irate

    Their masks of joy
    Are just a ploy

    To hide the thorny rose
    That they hold so close

    It's the closes they have to a soul
    Because they have a hated role

    They must infiltrate human's minds
    To turn them into the sharpest kinds

    As the ashes begin to fall
    With a true smile they begin to crawl

    Playing in the ashes, wasting their time
    Waiting for the day someone erases their kind