There's a dolls' hospital in Dublin
where shellshocked Actionmen rest
and dollies wait for limb transpops.
It's where ragdolls come to get stitches
and bears undergo kiddie dialysis.
Barbie is believed to have botox
privately in the outpatients daycentre,
but Ken won't say. His lips are sealed.
Sindy is terminal in the hospice
watching Sunset Boulevard on a loop.
There's a bench with a plaque dedicated
to the great Robinson Golliwog
(killed by the cruel marmalade trade)
where tin soldiers wear their rusty legs
and music box ballerinas lean
forever akimbo, forever hopeful.
They'll soon be returning to their careers.