The beautiful, angelic messangers of God,

powerful white wings of teh purest colour.

The saving grace from times of old,

making the happiness in your spirit even fuller.

Restoring happiness and hope in timees of bad,

saving people from the terrors to be had.

Helpers to teh unhumble humans,

often mistaken for alien lunars.

When need is great

they will help

mostly forgotten in times of late

busy, busy like little elves.

They help and help,

and help,

and help.

With no thanks.

They work so hard.

Of these angels there are many flanks.

The way to goodness is not barred

all it takes is good deeds and kindness.

To this simple fact humans show stubborn blindness.

How they know what to do,

I'm not entirely sure.

Making sure we're not blue

can be a complete boor.

They do what must be done,

although it is definitely not fun.

A/n:

I did not intend to insult anyone with the topic of this poem, it was baced on the version f angels from a series of books I used to like and itsnot even that good so please don't take any offence.