She kneeled down and closed her eyes,
red and wet by all these lies.
She shed sorrow in crystal drops,
washing away her remaining hopes.

Defrauded,sick and hurt,
her name was Jeannette
and in May,1873
nobody would listen to her last plea.

A dagger the instrument of this concert of pain.
accompanied by the monotonus sound of the rain.
Basic vocalists would be anxiety and sin,
the azure strings inside her wrists would make the perfect violin.

Silent melodies.So beautiful, the music of suicide.
No pretensions,expressed the rage she would hide.
A hideous gash from her torn veins,displayed like an open door.
The dagger in her lifeless hand,sinked in human gore.

Her parents who she loved, but mostly she endured,
in grief for their loss,they placed her in the family tomb.
but her mother couldn't bare the fact that Jeannette would have to rot.
So she decided to force for her decay and time to stop.

With glass and wax,porcelain at the most.
She wanted the girl to look pretty in any cost.
A reliable and well paid man,skilled in making dolls.
agreed to fix the roting parts and fill the ugly holes.

And Jeannette was remade,
inside her body engraved.
Held as decoration,
stuffed with affection,
her mother gave her more
attention than before.

After some time,happiness started to fray.
her father went back to France and her mother was locked away.
She claimed that her daughter wasn't dead.
hey said it was all inside her head.

They didn't believe her,they didn't care to check the doll.
She stayed in the abandoned mansion,with her back against the wall.
Until someone found her there and decided to sell her for some.
Finally somebody bought her and decided to take her home.

That day,for some completely unseen,a keen eye would surely catch
on her face a wicked grin.