Fickle are the weary hearts
Of these eight children, once pure and true
One was sweet and kind, a lover through and through
The second was hard and cruel, and thought everyone a fool
The third shed many tears, of things that mattered not
The forth played many pranks, harmless so they thought
The fifth child, they were wise, and clever in the day
The sixth child was loud, and felt they never got their way
The seventh child of the bunch, they were not made of much,
but hollow bones and silence, invisible they strut
The eighth child was made of chaos, but kept the peace instead
And all these children live with me, trapped inside my head.