The Son of a Carpenter

The son of a carpenter,
No flesh nor bone,
Nor life blood,
Nor feeling,
Nor soul of his own.

The son of a carpenter,
Sits all alone,
Naked and wooden,
Emotion not shown.

His eyes stare,
As buttons do,
His limbs limp and dry,
His face looks despairing,
But he cannot cry.

There's many a legend,
Surrounding the son,
But most pay heed,
To only but one,
They say he was real once,
Could move by himself,
But now he is doomed,
To fade on a shelf.

Some quote his making,
Of endless care,
Of carving and cutting,
Of dust in the air,
They said Pa was obsessive,
Down to the eyes,
Buttons, dark glinting,
That in certain lights,
Can catch the sunshine,
To seem like he cries.

They say also, too,
That he was abused,
That after the making,
He was not well used,
That hands that held him,
Were fumbling and rough,
That all of his trimmings,
Were never enough.

Some people fear him,
The child made of pine,
They say that Pa stole him,
Straight from the divine,
They tell of his daring,
Of running, cunning and fleet,
With puppet in tow,
And dancing, swift feet.

All of the tales have one thing alike,
All of them have one thing to show,
Each one is different,
Apart from one thing,
They are each about suffering and woe.

Why do you pity,
A little wood boy?
No matter what Pa says,
He's only a toy.