Deep within the winding wood,
A little house there in it stood,
Within the shelter that it gives,
A man of strings there in it lives.
A living man, made of living strings,
Always sewing all kids of things,
A master seamster, yes he is,
A simple creature, a simple life is his.
It was his dream to make his simple living
By sewing, sewing, sewing, sewing,
Nifty little clothes and toys
For all the little girls and boys.
So he packed his greatest creations
Unto a wooden cart,
And headed into town
To sell his works of art.
But as he set up shop,
Nobody cared to stop.
He stood there all day
Until the evening shade,
But nobody came
To see the work he had made,
Indeed the people were all too afraid.
"But why?" He sighed,
Do they scream and cry?
Why are they afraid of strings?
Are not their clothes made of such things?"
He sadly packed up his cart
And went back to his home,
In the solemn silence
He pondered alone.
Until that silence was broken
By a knocker on his door who knockingly went,
He opened it to find
A strange sort of gent.
It was a mechanical man made of scissors,
He said his name was Skizzors,
YOU ARE READING
Stringthing
PoetryStringthing, a man made of strings, Lives a quiet life sewing All manner of things. All he wants is to share His creations with all, To bring a multitude of smiles Through his teddies and dolls. But he's all tangled up In what others think of him...
