Like men, from dust and clay she is born.
By men, her face and delicate form is made,
Through heat and glaze and Water she’ll soon scorn.
A fine novelty, A porcelain maid.
On her crown are luscious locks of mohair,
Adorned with rosettes, by masters no doubt!
And glass eyes tell the secrets she can’t share
For her lips are in an eternal pout.
Velvet and lace conceals her nakedness
Away from a stranger’s unwelcome gaze.
And this Belle who looks alive, is lifeless.
A sleeping beauty born by the fire’s blaze.
Yet a doll is not unlike a real man.
Both are puppets, Each to a different hand