I feel like porcelain,
With my fragile knees all shaken;
I fretfully will try to please,
And with a doll I’m oft mistaken.
A frail trophy of finer things;
A little princess with her painted wings.
Admired only through the glass,
And only through the glass, admiring.
Oh, to be turned again to flesh and blood!
To feel against my cheeks the flood;
And live the days of all the weeks
To the fullest I possibly could.
But I am just the faint of heart;
Try me, and I fall apart.
Buy me, but I’m just to see,
And only as a work of art.