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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