The Face Marker
Watching the TV, there was a report.
A report on someone engaging a new blood sport.
People were showing up with bloody carvings on their face
And the person responsible was not leaving a single trace.
The one survivor said the last thing they remembered was a Purin Singing.
Oh, what delight it must have been to hear such a sweet melody ringing!
I remembered hearing one before I lost my hearing.
Such a melodious sound in a large forest clearing.
I remember waking up hours later with my face covered in an odd design
But that encounter ended just fine.
I'm still here, still alive, still remembering Purin's perfect tone
My only loss was my replica Purin microphone
I got had gotten it from a crafter
One who gave it to me with great laughter
As to the simpleness of the design
And he promised that it would easily be mine
And what a craft it was to behold!
It's gleam would not easily get old
As I jubilantly ran from the store
Happy to my deepest core
But now I wonder what happened to that shiny mic.
Maybe it was stolen by some passing tyke.
Although I'd hope they'd turn it in
Because there is no marker held within
Only a metallic blade coated with thin black slush
Meant to appear like Purin's comic brush
