by Nick Gisburne
Behind the busy fairground walks a man
Who gives to little children who are lost
A clever, clockwork robot, if he can
But every precious plaything has its cost
As part of some imaginary game
The tiny toys are hidden out of sight
In time, these tin contraptions take the name
Of those who sleep beside them in the night
And creeping, crawling, silent on the stairs
Each nervous but enthusiastic child
Abandoning the life and love he shares
Is led by clever clockwork to the wild
The robots reach their maker, to be wound
But nothing of the child is ever found
