A puppet’s life

Constantly being pulled by her mechanic’s eye
Her wooden limbs forced to be soft to wait on the smiles of her audience
Her eyes have to shine like a mirrors gleam
In order to force a boy teenager to get his hand out of his pocket and take notice
She has to wear her smile like a butcher wears gloves
Stunned, stretched and then frozen rock hard on a mould
Blood is drawn out into the shape of lips and bad workmanship makes her small waist tight
And she waits dry, sat in a paint job that licks on to her an extra shine
Those lips they play their part, widening into an empty smile
Which are endless to-be-interpreted stories for her viewer
Who’s mind is a child’s, running wild
When the lights turn dim and the show is bowed out
She waves goodbye to her now empty stadium
Ready to be used again the next morning


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