"Welcome to our home!"
All the creatures cheered,
As they gathered around Ragz,
Ecstatic she was here.
"Since you're new,
You should pick the bedtime story tonight!"
They exclaimed to the doll
And led her to the bookshelf with delight.
"Hmmm."
Ragz mused to herself
As she examined the vast selection
Of stories on the shelf.
"How about this one?"
An old weathered notebook
Was the one she picked out,
But when Stringthing saw it
He started to pout,
"Of all the stories you could choose
How did you choose mine?"
"I thought you didn't have a story?"
Ragz curiously replied.
"Not one I want to remember,
Let alone recite."
He grumbled to the doll,
Not looking in her blue button eye.
"But," he softened his tone
When he glanced at her worried face,
"It is your first night here
And you should have a say.
May I?" He asked for the book
And gently leafed through its pages,
"Wow," he muttered to himself,
"I haven't seen his handwriting in ages...
Gather around,"
He said out loud to the crowd,
"At last I'll tell you a tale, my friends,
Of how I came about:
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...
