One of my marionettes is dead Though not yet tired of the game— But weak in body as in head, (A jumping-jack has such a frame).
But this deceasèd marionette I rather liked: a common face, (The kind of face that we forget) Pinched in a comic, dull grimace;
Half bullying, half imploring air, Mouth twisted to the latest tune; His who-the-devil-are-you stare; Translated, maybe, to the moon.
With Limbo’s other useless things Haranguing spectres, set him there; “The snappiest fashion since last spring’s, “The newest style, on Earth, I swear.
“Why don’t you people get some class? (Feebly contemptuous of nose), “Your damned thin moonlight, worse than gas— “Now in New York”—and so it goes.
Logic a marionette’s, all wrong Of premises; yet in some star A hero!—Where would he belong? But, even at that, what mask bizarre!