She stole my thunder 

She stole my glory

She is the violent rage of the winds

And the thrashing waters.

Poppet is the ugly stain

On my victory.

But Poppet is fair

And Poppet is fine

Poppet is beautiful

And Poppet is divine.

Poppet is silk

And Poppet is velvet

Poppet is the apple core

With the poison concealed inside.

They call out the special of the few

And so Poppet’was,

You’d see the children clap and cheer

You needn't see the widow shed her tears.

And the flimsy napkin’s she’d throw

Just to pick another, like from a flower bush

And dry her cheek,

But no cotton could rescue her from sorrow.

She’d think of the cheer

And she’d think of the tears

Pick another when the summer’s end is near

With the only remain, thinking “no one wants me here,” 

But then she’d soon remember

Who poppet used to be

The ragdoll is sewn back up

With spare bits and patches of me.

They must have gone back with her

The puppet plastered pink

Perhaps it could explain the emptiness inside

Whisked away with the vision in the mirror that I used to see.

Is she a part of me?

Perhaps that query is no more

Where’s from the soothing silk

And not the wires at the core.

For Poppet is the ugly stain

On my victory.