Beneath your thick skin,
there must have been a creature
controlling you like a marionette robot.
Or else how could you have said those things?
Or else how could you have stopped your heart?
I did the autopsy with my scalpel
and found that, yes, my brand new theory was true.
And the creature was a nasty bugger
and she bit my arm clear right through,
but now I know that wasn't really you, Girl Number Two.
"The death of Girl Number Two," read the first line,
written by a fond paper columnist,
"actually happened in the 20's
and since she's been inhabited by an oddly whimsical creature.
She was a marionette to its hand."
Full Stop. And then the whole story.
And everyone sighed when it ran.