Who shall say that his love was not good
For the dummy of cloth and wax and wood?
I know that more curious things exist
Than the love of a dreaming ventriloquist.
He liked to perch her on his knee
Combing her black hair lovingly,
Then talk by the hour just as though
She understood and ought to know.
Her chatter merged with his and twice,
I know, he struck her ... it wasn't nice.
Repenting, he bought her costly things--
Gowns, rare necklaces and rings.
One night they found him on the floor
Stark dead ... each year I wonder more
Why, killing himself, he never wrote
Of the dagger he sank in her wooden throat.