She'd say: You poet, you liar
You truly will end up in hell
You shall be burning in fire
Cause  poems are lies that you just tell
Using nice words and metaphors
Aiming to put me under spell

I'd say: Well, some of it came true
I am burning, but with your love
Softly tortured with your bright lights
The poems for you are merely sighs
Longing for you at sleepless nights

Thinking about you all the time
Telling the truth, nothing to sell...
You did put me under your spell!
With hazy eyes that hypnotised
Gently my mind, until I fell
                                               For you...

This is the tale of the
Kid’s doll, the wallygog.
A doll meant to look like
A pale pitiful human hog
With a clammy white body
With wimpy yellow hair
And blue button eyes,
And cotton belly to spare.

It is so unattractive that
It must be that this toy
Is meant to insult them,
White girls and boys,
So that playing with it
Puts them in their place
As objects of ridicule
Laughs in the white face.

Because look how sad,
With wan sewn-open lips
And imitation Gap clothes
Sewn to shoulder and hip.
How foolish and rude
Is this toy made by fools.
Who can truly ignore
What is meant by this tool?

Yet is so popular now
The silly Wallygog today;
Some children refuse
As they grow, to set it away.
They carry it around
And it leaves me agog
That they never understand
What it means, this Wallygog.