The Dolls
A doll in the doll-makers houseLooks at the cradle and balls:That is an insult to us.But the oldest of all the dollsWho had seen, being kept for show,Generations of his sort,Out-screams the whole shelf: AlthoughThere's not a man can reportEvil of this place,The man and the woman bringHither to our disgrace,A noisy and filthy thing.Hearing him groan and stretchThe doll-maker¹s wife is awareHer husband has heard the wretch,And crouched by the arm of his chair,She murmurs into his ear,Head upon shoulder leant:My dear, my dear, oh dear,It was an accident.