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I'm trapped in a dollhouse,

alone as a freshly widowed spouse.

My skin is poorly knit together,

torn apart from a fit of bad weather.

My body sewn from leather,

my head as light as a feather.

My heart is made of cotton,

my soul is cold and rotten.

My eyes stitched shut with a button,

my guts stuffed full of mutton.

My lips as thin as a knife,

my existence is full of strife.

My memories are made of plastic,

my mind is stretched like elastic.

My life will end with a single douse,

the spark of a flame to burn down the dollhouse.

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