Out under the street light a rag doll is waltzing
Her stuffing a-smolder, her tatters in flames
Arms outflung and spinning, feet tracing the steps
Of a dance never written to be danced alone
Her stumpy white hands mocking grace with their flailing
Her ravelled yarn hair flopping, tempting the blaze
And we can't call the cops, there's no law against dancing
By the time the fire engines come, she will be gone
At all of the windows I see shadowed faces
Aghast at this insult, but wanting to see
Some drunk shot the light out, but now the fire's brighter
The Wicker Girl's crackling and whirling with glee
How dare she go burning up out in the street like that
What about everyone else who's on fire
Smoke seeps from the windows and pours from the chimneys
We cough and complain out of sheer courtesy
They say the first waltzes commanded an outcry
Their one-two-three cadences too close to home
Too much like a heartbeat, too earthy and wicked
Too fiery and tempting, too primal and red
Perhaps the first fires brought a similar panic
Familiar and powerful, too good for people
And someone should tell it to that awful rag doll
But ashes and cinders, the rag doll is dead
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