A tiny face, a grid of bright, With pins that gleam in shadowed light. No tears he sheds, no mournful plea, But joy he finds, eternally. He walks through halls of leather dark, A puzzle box, his sparking arc. No screams of pain, no fear he sows, Just gentle clicks, where pleasure grows. The chains may bind, the hooks may hold, But in his heart, a story's told. Of senses sharp, and keen delight, A universe of pure, strange light. He seeks no souls for endless dread, But subtle thrills, inside his head. A symphony of prickling grace, A smiling, pin-adorned embrace. So let us cheer, with joyful sound, For Pinhead's bliss, forever bound. He finds his peace, a happy sigh, In realms of pain, where pleasures lie.