Cass McCombs Follow

In tribute to all things petite,
pretty and sweet,
this verse I offer and greet
in desire to replete

A portrait painted from truth
but imagined to soothe
for Beauty, eternal in youth
loves pity, compassion, and ruth

I stumbled out of the saloon
an evening last June
and heard a distant, mournful tune
under the dyad moon

My Soul, though with wine I did douse
the song did arouse
I followed, a drunken louse
unto a cardboard house

And through the window to see
a doll before me
singing to the mirror was she-
Was it a plea?

Her room was all dresses and bows
for a doll needs her clothes
She leaned in to breathe from a rose
and stood on her tippy-toes

With a brush made of jade and pearl
she straightened her blonde curl
I saw the sad eyes of a girl
under teardrops, aswirl

She went to her canopied bed
and laid down her head
She picked up her sheep-doll and said
something with dread

Though I was too drunk to make sense
I felt her Essence
and turned to leave this pretense
for night, black and immense

I remember that singing doll
and her grievous call
as a little reminder to us all
whose sadness wasn’t so small