My, I pulled back the poor child deflected
As I embroidered The Child of cotton on the imprinted...
Factory fabric that they sent scented,
Trying to tailor Tiny Toys their Trademark... ...
DEAD, with their eyes to the foe,
Dead, with the foe at their feet;
Under the sky laid low
Truly their slumber is sweet,
Though the wind from the Camp of the
Slain Men blow,
And the rain on the wilderness beat.
