Stories from the World War.
My dollies would always dance around,
Upon my small, garden ground,
And then the sirens would scream and shout,
And my parents would rush about.
They would pick me up and take me away,
From the garden where my dollies lay,
Racing down the slimy steps,
Where they would fall into howls and frets.
The grounds would shake and houses bleed,
Where afterwards, the poppy seed,
I would know where rained the fire,
Knocking down the peaceful shire.
I would toss back the rubble to look and see,
And peer into a sight that shattered me,
She would lay there, for all to see,
The broken dolly, that played with me.