The masks people wear
cold, but such care;
and oh how they stare 
from those holes 
though.

The folly of their ways,
pompous, fickle knaves;
but oh they just dance
to their graves
though.



You lie in your bed.
You lie in your head.
And you’ll lie when you’re dead.
It’s all the same, 
below.

So look into the glass 
at that precious waxy mask
and know that it won’t last 
nothing will,
no.

🎃