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Doll Talk

Felix Dennis
June 26, 2011
Mandalay, Mustique
Unpublished
Arrow
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I know a girl called Jenny Bree
Who lives in Brighton-by-the-sea,
Her room is filled with dolls to hold—
Next year she will be six years old.

While Jenny dreams, her dolls discuss
Their secrets. Some make such a fuss!
‘It’s odd we never change,’ one cries,
‘While Jenny grows before our eyes.’

A rag doll clasped in Jenny’s arm,
Whispers then in hushed alarm:
‘You silly-billys, talk is cheap
But Jenny needs her beauty sleep,

So keep you voices down, for shame!’
A teddy bear without a name
Growls out: ‘All very well for you,
But I have heard, and think it true,

That when young Jen grows up one day
Then we will all be thrown away
And chucked upon a rubbish dump.’
‘Oh, Teddy, you are such a grump,’

Chirps Molly with the bright red hair,
‘As if our Jen would leave us there!
When I was lost a week ago
She had her Mum search high and low

To find me or she’d die, she said—
(She’d stuffed me underneath the bed).
So much for all your nasty thoughts;
You bears are always out of sorts.’

A Barbie in a chiffon dress
Pipes up: ‘I think I’d best confess
That once, I was her sister’s joy,
But now there’s not a single toy

In Susan’s room, unless she still
Has Monty on the window sill.’
‘Who’s Monty?’ asks a doll, wide-eyed.
‘My bridegroom,’ sniffs the Barbie bride.

On hearing this a certain gloom
Descends upon young Jenny’s room,
Until a pony, soft and pink,
Neighs out: ‘I’ll tell you what I think:

I do not think that any toy
Belongs to any girl or boy
For very long. But that don’t mean
They didn’t love us, Josephine.

I think that some are kept by chance
And others...’ here she steals a glance
At Josie, ‘...they are passed along
To younger ones. I could be wrong...’

The bedroom fills with angry cries
As Jenny turns and softly sighs,
And all the dolls sit still as mice.
The rag doll says: ‘Here’s my advice:

There’s none of us who really knows
What might be true when Jenny grows,
Nor do we know who made us all
Or what’s beyond the garden wall,

But if I have to soak up tears
From other little ones, my dears,
And if it turns out Pony’s right—
Then what will be will be. Goodnight!’

I know a girl called Jenny Bree
Who lives in Brighton-by-the-sea,
Her room is filled with dolls to hold—
Next year she will be six years old.

While Jenny dreams, her dolls discuss
Their secrets. Some make such a fuss!
‘It’s odd we never change,’ one cries,
‘While Jenny grows before our eyes.’

A rag doll clasped in Jenny’s arm,
Whispers then in hushed alarm:
‘You silly-billys, talk is cheap
But Jenny needs her beauty sleep,

So keep you voices down, for shame!’
A teddy bear without a name
Growls out: ‘All very well for you,
But I have heard, and think it true,

That when young Jen’ grows up one day
Then we will all be thrown away
And chucked upon a rubbish dump.’
‘Oh, Teddy, you are such a grump,’

Chirps Molly with the bright red hair,
‘As if our Jen’ would leave us there!
When I was lost a week ago
She had her Mum search high and low

To find me or she’d die, she said—
(She’d stuffed me underneath the bed).
So much for all your nasty thoughts;
You bears are always out of sorts.’

A Barbie in a chiffon dress
Pipes up: ‘I think I’d best confess
That once, I was her sister’s joy,
But now there’s not a single toy

In Susan’s room, unless she still
Has Monty on the window sill.’
‘Who’s Monty?’ asks a doll, wide-eyed.
‘My bridegroom,’ sniffs the Barbie bride.

On hearing this a certain gloom
Descends upon young Jenny’s room,
Until a pony, soft and pink,
Neighs out: ‘I’ll tell you what I think:

I do not think that any toy
Belongs to any girl or boy
For very long. But that don’t mean
They didn’t love us, Jospehine.

I think that some are kept by chance
And others...’ here she steals a glance
At Josie, ‘...they are passed along
To younger ones. I could be wrong...’

The bedroom fills with angry cries
As Jenny turns and softly sighs,
And all the dolls sit still as mice.
The rag doll says: ‘Here’s my advice:

There’s none of us who really knows
What might be true when Jenny grows,
Nor do we know who made us all
Or what’s beyond the garden wall,

But if I have to soak up tears
From other little ones, my dears,
And if it turns out Pony’s right—
Then what will be will be. Goodnight!’