The doll sits on the back of the shelf,
her face is sad and broken,
sits alone by herself,
she never seemed as a token,
she was thrown about,
her dress ripped and torn,
she was the one to pout,
the one who should of never been born,
tears stain her face,
tears of blood,
other dolls take her place,
while she was just thrown in the mud,
her hair tangled and unbrushed,
it dyed black and red,
her little porcelain fingers crushed,
the doll that looks dead
