In tribute to all things petite,
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pretty and sweet,
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this verse I offer and greet
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in desire to replete
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A portrait painted from truth
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but imagined to soothe
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for Beauty, eternal in youth
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loves pity, compassion, and ruth
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I stumbled out of the saloon
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an evening last June
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and heard a distant, mournful tune
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under the dyad moon
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My Soul, though with wine I did douse
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the song did arouse
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I followed, a drunken louse
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unto a cardboard house
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And through the window to see
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a doll before me
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singing to the mirror was she-
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Was it a plea?
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Her room was all dresses and bows
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for a doll needs her clothes
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She leaned in to breathe from a rose
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and stood on her tippy-toes
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With a brush made of jade and pearl
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she straightened her blonde curl
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I saw the sad eyes of a girl
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under teardrops, aswirl
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She went to her canopied bed
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and laid down her head
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She picked up her sheep-doll and said
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something with dread
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Though I was too drunk to make sense
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I felt her Essence
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and turned to leave this pretense
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for night, black and immense
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I remember that singing doll
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and her grievous call
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as a little reminder to us all
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whose sadness wasnĄ¯t so small
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The Lonely Doll
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| Cass McCombs |
