That Celebrity

Out of straw and rag, I made a doll; A minstrel of Lord, the best of the bunch. For him, from HIM, seven hours, I stole. Magnificent decor with love, he had, I had a hunch. Lord makes straw but I made him. Gold was buried but I polished it. My small room, dunce heart, was heaven, it seemed. Buds tell it's spring, it was that he did. But now that spring is over as always, For he doesn't sing as was supposed to. And that slightly conspicuous pride he has Made me nearly shattered as to say so. He enjoys those decor rather than seeing me. He likes tidiness more than my clean love. That gold makes prone of me to robber, for Mercy. That eternal minstrel never will clear my doubt. We all don't see our birth until we are told. So, he won't recall me by singing his renown. The last of this quatrain is left for your doll.