by Nick Gisburne
I found her in a box, tied up with string
A talking doll, with just the sweetest smile
She was a precious, pretty little thing
The seller thought her nauseating, vile
I tried to pull the ring, to hear her speak
Instead, I found a tale of disrepair
Her body, bent and battered, cracked and weak
Demanded all my time and special care
But then, the tiny footprints, smears of ash
Reports about the seller, burned to death
It seems that I must pay with more than cash
And every time she talks, I catch my breath
“We’ll have such fun, I promise, you and I
Together, always, till the day you die”
After completing the poem, I looked and found this ad for Chatty Cathy, the original talking doll:
Near the end the narrator says, "Just pull the ring, you never know what she’ll say next".
Or do.
