Skull, ill-proportionate,
Stuck in the same position all the time,
We're all in the same lot,
Only moving when we're nudged to do so,
Then only look around,
Give a nod back to the inspecting eyes,
Placated by the little movement they found.
They have to give our hefty heads a shake,
Or we're just left to think,
'Bout how most of the time we're up on shelves,
Contemplating the brink,
We all don't fall,
But those that do tip o'er,
Their heads will pop off little cheap spring,
Revealing what we all are at the core.
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