Herr Drosselmeyer's DollnThere she is on the stagenSpinning as she sprawlsnThank God the curtains fallnHer spring is sprungnAnd dances donenSpinning as she sprawlsnThank God the curtains fallnnIn the morning, he twists the key quite hardnAnd ticking, she's brought to boilnRelevé, my sweet, en pointe, en garde!nHer innards twang as they uncoilnnHerr Doktor's fingertips trace bynOn craquelature from every fallnThe daylight made to race right bynWith paint and paste and stitch and awlnnPatient, patient, bumblebee,nSoon your audience admirenA shapely arabesque or threenI'll wind you up, you'll never tire.nnStarry tutu, sullen moonnA frozen carmine mouthnTwinkles as she jerks and swoonsnThe ladies ushered outnnGentlemen, this fallen angel is the illegitimate daughter of art and science. A modern marvel of engineering, clockworks elevated to the very natural process which even now is in your blood, racing, your eyes flashing at such irreproachable beauty. Here is Gaia, here is Eve, here is Lilith, and I stand before you as her father. Sprung fully-formed from my brow, dewy and sweet; she can be yours and yours again, for her flesh is the incorruptible pale to be excused from the wages of sin.n(winds her up)nnAnd as the sack cloth, sodden, slumpsnBeneath these chipped and china limbsnThe sour flesh pines, grunts and thumpsnStep right up, boys, tuppence for a spin!