• Most puppets run on strings,
    This puppet runs on no such things.
    With broken glass slippers,
    And run down ol' slickers.
    Her body is torn,
    Her porcelain is worn.

    People pass by,
    Their words are run dry
    By tacky new fashions
    And worn out ol' passions.
    No alleviations to help her out
    Nothing in her now, but doubt.

    Worms crawling in and out,
    One eye missing, hair tangled all about.
    No kisses being delivered,
    Only limbs to be further severed.

    "God, oh God," she cries
    Every time, an Angel dies.
    "Lord, oh Lord," she begs,
    As the the pin digs
    Into her skin,
    Although it's thick it seems so thin.

    "If my porcelain skin
    Is such a sin
    Then why give me this ghastly grin?
    The line is wearing thin
    In my porcelain skin.
    God, oh God,
    What is this small fog
    That lay before me?"

    No reply as heaven shut its gates,
    And hell unleashed its furious wraiths,
    This is the end for those who cry.
    This is the hell, that we will try.

    Deliver us, so we may live.
    Give to us, who always give.
    Torment not, our weary souls.
    For we are fools, and have no goals.

    "Lord oh, Lord," I start to cry
    Is this the way, I too, must die?