• In that forgotten part of town,
    Where wasted hopes and dreams abound.
    A wrinkled man with life near end,
    In hopes to have one last friend,
    Fashioned bits of wood and things,
    And made a dummy run by strings.

    He sat alone for hours on end,
    Conversing with his only friend,
    And found delight in the fact,
    That he controlled its every act.
    He told it how he never had,
    A chance, since luck was always bad,
    Although he'd tried so to succeed-
    The dummy nodded and agreed.

    And how he journeys in romance,
    Had never given him a chance.
    And wasnt it a crying shame,
    That he was always held to blame,
    When everyone knew, oh so well,
    That life is but a living hell,
    Controlled by lust and power and greed?
    The dummy nodded and agreed.

    With patience that would rival saints,
    The dummy sat through all complaints.
    And, with each little expert tug,
    He'd droop his head or bow or shrug,
    And give some comfort to the man,
    Who held his lifelines in his hand,
    And helped to fill a lonely need.
    When he just nodded and agreed.

    Senility increased with time,
    As did the old man's phantomime.
    And feverish fingers pulled with glee,
    The dummy's dance of misery.
    They never left each other's side,
    Until the day both stopped and died.
    We found them lying, hand in hand,
    The dummy and his wooden friend