In tribute to all things petite, pretty and sweet this verse I offer and greet in desire to replete
A portrait painted from truth but imagined to soothe for Beauty, eternal in youth loves pity, compassion, and ruth
I stumbled out of the saloon an evening last June and heard a distant mournful tune under the dyad moon
My Soul, though with wine I did douse the song did arouse I followed, a drunken louse unto a cardboard house
And through the window to see a doll before me singing to the mirror was she- was it a plea?
Her room was all dresses and bows for a doll neeeds her clothes She leaned in to breathe from a rose and stood on her tippy-toes
With a brush made of jade and pearl she straightened her blonde curl I saw the sad eyes of a girl under teardrops, aswirl
She went to her canopied bed and laid down her head She picked up her sheep-doll and said something with dread
Though I was too drunk to make sense I felt her Essence and turned to leave this pretense for night, black and immense
I remember that singing doll and her grievous call as a little reminder to us all whose sadness wasn't so small
