The Dolls’ Hospital
One day, while walking along Fulham Road,
I passed a shop, I’d not noticed before.
Above the door was a hand-written sign:
“Doll’s Hospital” it read, it must have been there some time.
I opened the door, and took a step in,
A little bell tinkled, and then seemed to sing,
My eyes wandered round this magical place,
The dolls that looked back had a smile on their face.
They were very old dolls, in original clothes,
With beautiful ringlets and bonnets and bows.
A little old lady came through from the rear,
We chatted for ages and nothing seemed queer.
She re-fit broken arms, broken legs and lost eyes,
A job she loved doing, and could not disguise.
She told me this work it must be carried on;
She had to find someone for when she was gone.
The door opened wide, the bell did not sound.
A lady walked in, put a bag on the ground.
She took out a doll. It was in a bad state;
The poor little thing had no smile on her face.
Her arm it was broken, her hair was a mess,
When I saw her I gasped, I have to confess.
The lady then asked, “can you fix her arm?”
She spoke abruptly, without any charm.
“I’ll call back tomorrow, it shouldn’t take long.”
She turned on her heel, and then she was gone.
The little old lady, heaved a big sigh,
She didn’t look well, I thought she might cry.
She said, “my name, it is Helga,” then smiled at me,
“Come on through,” she continued, “I’ll make us some tea.”
I locked the shop door, and we sat by the fire,
I cuddled the doll, her hair felt like wire.
I wished I could fix her and soften her hair,
“Oh yes, you can do it. You really care.”
Helga smiled at me, and then we both knew,
That this was my calling, this is what I should do.
The dolls all looked happy, the room it felt gay,
I was going to work here, I would start the next day.
The little doll snuggled up, close in my arms,
I would mend her and care for her, she’d come to no harm.
—LMT.
