There's a doll in my hand. I don't know how it got there.

A miserable-looking thing, with uncombed ratty hair.

She wears a velvet dress, that attracted many moths.

I tried to sew and patch the worn and tattered cloths.

Lips were rather perched into a resentful pout.

What made this doll so angry? What was she all about?

Then one morning I found her hiding under the stairs.

I guess she wasn't grateful of my attempted repairs.

It was rather strange at first. Her moving all around.

Was I placing and forgetting her on the tile ground?

There was a nice old spot on a shelf above my desk.

That's where I would put her but she became a pest.

The little pitter-patter of her ruby porcelain shoes,

Began to terrify me and she would be amused.

I'd hear a tiny giggle in the closet in the hall,

Or hear her playing and rolling a small glass ball.

And finally I noticed in the kitchen a missing knife.

Little devil plotting to send me to the afterlife.