Many masks there are, How many masks can one man wear? Too many masks to bear, Two million masks without a care, Is anybody real? With all these masks, Can no one feel? These men in masks surround, This poor young boy, Upon the ground, They posses tempers of glass, And cold hearts of stone, Those are covered in cracks, So now here all alone, I upon myself take this endless task, I make their masks my own, Then with a flash, My masks are gone, They’re turned to ash, Then all that’s left is my broken home, A place of endless trash, Crushed like bones, By many masks.