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.