The little wind-up girl

The little wind-up girl with a broken spring
sits looking down upon everything
from her shantytown-shelf of shadow and dust,
dreaming her wistful dreams of rust.

She smiles quite sweetly as she dreams,
but she always smiles, or so it seems.
She rattles inside when she is shaken,
but none shake now; she is quite forsaken.

The decay of time her face defiles,
and still she smiles and smiles and smiles.