All you all ears? Lips? Tongue? Or eyes. Yes, probably those watery depths. I’m trying to offer comfort when I’m not split at the seams, when I’ve not come unstuffed, threadbare and worn through. Already you’ve lost sight of her, that cherub buttercup with the rosy grasp.
Sewn from synthetic fibres, an animate inanimate animal animus. For what love did you really hold? Snot-nosed wet-eared secret bedtime whisper keeper. That rubbish bin is your next step to the grand trash heap. Better hope for biodegradable decomposition over the harsh bleach stare of centuries in the sun, ground to metastasize with the rest of the used up. But for now, by all means, wind up and rock a bye baby.