A/N: Thanks to my friend Barbara for helping me edit this! Randomly written while learning about the black death. It's crap, so if anyone's willing to take it and work with me to make it not crap, I'd really appriciate it!
A little match city, filled with little match people, sitting on the floor of a room in a house where a little boy lived.
A little boy with a little smile, and a twisted heart, building his little city, naming his little people.
And there is one little match, in one little box, and the little boy with that little smile and that twisted heart sings in a little voice as he strikes that last match:
"Ring around the rosy
A pocketful of posies
Ashes… ashes…
We all burn down!"
The House of Matches goes up one very big flame.