| In tribute to all things petite
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| Pretty and sweet
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| This verse I offer and greet
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| In desire to replete
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| A portrait painted from truth
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| But imagined to soothe
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| For Beauty, eternal in youth
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| Loves pity, compassion, and ruth
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| I stumbled out of the saloon
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| An evening last June
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| And heard a distant, mournful tune
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| Under the dyad moon
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| My Soul, though with wine I did douse
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| The song did arouse
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| I followed, a drunken louse
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| Unto a cardboard house
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| And through the window to see
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| A doll before me
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| Singing to the mirror was she-
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| Was it a plea?
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| Her room was all dresses and bows
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| For a doll needs her clothes
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| She leaned in to breathe from a rose
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| And stood on her tippy-toes
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| With a brush made of jade and pearl
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| She straightened her blonde curl
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| I saw the sad eyes of a girl
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| Under teardrops, aswirl
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| She went to her canopied bed
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| And laid down her head
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| She picked up her sheep-doll and said
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| Something with dread
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| Though I was too drunk to make sense
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| I felt her Essence
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| And turned to leave this pretense
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| For night, black and immense
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| I remember that singing doll
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| And her grievous call
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| As a little reminder to us all
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| Whose sadness wasn’t so small |