Keep going for a week.
She leaves me open when she will,
Till I’m sick of dirt and things;
Of pins and hair I have got my fill,
And of buttons, hooks and strings.
There’s a four-leaf clover in me, too,
And a piece of a photograph;
I’m stuffed completely through and through
With toothpicks, cloves and chaff.
My hands are twisted to and fro,