In one forsaken patch of a dying town
Dwells a queer old thing with skeletal feet
This ancient place has blackened walls
and blackened floors
And crumbling wooden doors
The china dolls on the walls are deathly still
the silent room is laced will a sinister chill
demented smile, a head full of lies
and jars full of dead eyes
porcelain skin, porcelain mind
her sanity, our miss will never find
her array of knives, her prized possessions
are all fair and fine
and if her mirror listened, she'd tell it proudly,
" The blood on my hands is never mine."
Forgotten ghosts roam for miles around
Whispering their plight in plain sight
When this phantom town runs out of folk to mar
One wonders if our miss will eat her own heart out