Behind store front glass is where he resides,
as millions of people come strolling on by.
The man is affixed, cannot wave his goodbyes,
and he lusts for a glare through his frothy grey eyes.

His feet, they are bare. His hair stays the same.
Long days, and long nights, he watches in shame.
He dreams of the warm, supple touch of his dame.
As hes fitted again, "This months suit!" they exclaim.

So dapper he looks, and hollow his soul.
He gives them his best, in his suit made of gold.
Still they pass by him swift, never stop to behold,
The Manikin Man, in his glass front abode.