what good little girls are made of ~ 1984/age 14
putrid little dolly
stolid and decaying
ain't she fair and sweet
soft lips cold and blue
on her ghastly mocking grin
blood flows from her fingers
dries on her razor
pooling toward that mangled mess
that broke her little wooden heart
every limb severed
the butchered swine
his head my prize
poor, poor little dolly: do they hear me giggling?
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