My, I pulled back the poor child deflected
As I embroidered The Child of cotton on the imprinted...
Factory fabric that they sent scented,
Trying to tailor Tiny Toys their Trademark...
And as I stretched, as I twitched, laboured a mark
Till the night got washed by my sheets of dark
I'd stitch your garments... which are
Still to be thought...
And out with a spindle... clothes would I contort
The Child winced and wailed,
As by the 'i' of my needle: it got caught.