Roberto grew colorful
As all his parts aged
On the frame of the story
That held him up to the light.
He rustled and he chuckled,
And anyone passing by
Found him to be delightful,
Even lovely near the end.
Roberto accepted this,
So long as he held his shape,
So long as he looked himself.
But one morning, passers by
Had to admit he’d vanished,
His story bare of him there.
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