He's a sly, twisted man.
Slowly becoming crippled by his own hands.
Intertwining himself in his own strings,
Cutting through the rest of his dreams.
One by one his toys fall down,
Until all but one hits the ground.
A little boy you see is here,
Watching and waiting in mild fear.
His eyes are sharp and cold like ice,
hiding memories of what he'd remember.
He'd wait for the downfall, the death of the king,
Even if he had to wait forever to finally hear the dying cry of laughter ring.
