ABOUT DEPLORABLE DOLLS
Come sit by the candle and settle in tight. Here is the tale of a doll, and a storm in the night.
CHAPTER 1
High over a city that had lost its good sense,
where the news was too loud and the folks were too tense,
an old maker lived in a shop full of thread.
He mended by day. And by night, it is said,
his friends climbed the stairs, coming two by two:
the pranksters, the tailors, the truth tellers too.
They sat in a circle and talked soft and low
of the right to be free, and the truth folks should know.
And the maker kept sketching a flag for their fight,
but no matter how hard, it never looked right.
So he folded it small and he tucked it away,
in his pocket, to finish some other day.
CHAPTER 2
While they talked, his old hands did what old hands do.
They found a burlap scrap and a button or two,
and stitched a small fellow, plain, sturdy and brown,
the kind that gets knocked down and won't stay down.
Two button eyes that did not quite agree.
A scrap of red cloth for the courage to be.
"There," said the maker, and set down his thread.
"Now what shall I name you, my burlap friend?" he said.
He glanced at the sketch he still couldn't get right,
then back at the doll in the soft candlelight.
"Burl," he decided. "Burl Bobbin will do."
(He thought it quite punny. Between me and you.)
"Good night, Burl Bobbin. Good night, and Godspeed."
Then he nodded off, for a rest he did need.
CHAPTER 3
That night, as the maker snored soft in his chair,
a storm came a-rumbling through the cold city air.
The shutters went BANG. The candles went out.
The thunder rolled in with a growl and a shout.
Then lightning flashed in with a crackle and ZING,
and it struck the small needle still threaded with string.
The stitches glowed gold. The buttons blinked twice.
And Burl sat up. Well! Wasn't that nice?
CHAPTER 4
Now Burl knew nothing of how or of why,
but he knew right from wrong, and he'd never learned to lie.
(Unlike a certain wooden boy you may know,
his nose had no reason to grow, grow, grow.)
He climbed to the windowsill and peered at the town.
The sky wasn't blue. Folks were pushing folks down.
They shouted and shoved, and nobody would hear,
and the little ones hid, and the big ones felt fear.
Nobody had to explain it. Burl could see it plain: something out there was broken.
"Not me," he said. "I won't just sit still."
And he slipped through the window and over the sill.
CHAPTER 5
He wandered the city on two stitched feet,
past puddles and pigeons, down alley and street.
In a shop window glowing, a wall of TVs
showed folks in gray helmets saying, "Move along, please.
Sit down. Don't ask questions. There's nothing to see."
Burl pressed his button eyes up to the glass, and he thought of the voices by candlelight, and all they had said about being free.
He didn't have a plan. Not yet. But he was starting to know what he was for.
So home he hurried, as fast as could be,
with an idea in his stuffing as big as a tree.
CHAPTER 6
He climbed through the window and stopped in surprise.
A whole shelf of new faces blinked back at his eyes.
While Burl was out, the old maker had made
a row of small dolls from the scraps that he'd saved.
And the storm, it seems, had left magic in the thread.
"Whoa," said Burl. "Who are you?"
"Peepers!" "Jeepers!" "Pepe!" "Boo!"
Then Suzie and Sunshine, then Reggie and Pam,
who looked him up and down and said,
"It's time for something to happen, young man."
CHAPTER 7
Now, those dolls on the shelf had been listening each night
to the circle that whispered by soft candlelight.
"They talk about freedom," said Peepers.
"And truth," said Suzie.
"And telling everyone," said Reggie.
"Before it's too late," said Pam.
Burl looked at his friends, then at the needles and thread.
"He must have made us for this," Burl said.
They couldn't march. They couldn't shout. But they could stitch.
So all night long, by the light of the moon, they sewed what they'd heard into shirts and caps, cups and flags: little reminders, stitch by stitch, that people are born to be free.
CHAPTER 8
Before the sun rose, they slipped out the door,
a patchwork parade, eight friends and one more.
A shirt on a doorstep. A mug by a gate.
A flag in a window where someone sat late.
And folks woke, and they stopped, and they smiled,
for the first time in a long, long while.
A little light crept back into town. And up on a rooftop, nine small dolls raised their needles high and gave the only rally cry they'd ever need:
Needle and Thread, Unite!
CHAPTER 9
In the morning the maker woke stiff in his chair.
The shelf was all empty. The scrap bin was bare.
His needles were missing. His thread was gone too.
He searched every corner. No dolls. Not a clue.
No Burl. No Peepers. Not even a Boo.
Then, just as he turned, he looked down at the ground,
and there on the floorboards, a patch he had found:
a square of rough fabric, all frayed at the hem,
stitched with a doll and a flag, just like them.
"What's this?" said the maker. "It can't be," he said.
He reached in his pocket and pulled out instead
the sketch he could never quite get to look right.
In ink, on paper: the very same sight.
"Well, I'll be," said the maker, and sat on the floor.
"My Burl. His pals. So that's what you were for."
Purpose waits for no man, and no doll.
Magic is real, and there's hope for us all.
TO BE CONTINUED
Every doll is a parody talisman. It holds a mirror to power, punctures an inflated ego, and lets the rest of us breathe again. Think of it as a holistic release for your sanity and your smile.
THE CREED OF THE FRONT LINE
I
Satire only works when what sits underneath it is true. We tell it straight, check our facts, and let the jokes land on solid ground.
II
Power answers for what it does. We cannot make anyone pay, but we can make it a lot harder to look away.
III
You do not control the news. You control your next stitch. Get knocked down, get back up, same face, same calm.
IV
Wherever you are, you are home. The Front Line goes with you, and nobody gets to take that place, or your peace, away from you.
LIVE NOW
Hoodies, tees, hats and mugs, printed on demand and shipped to you.
COMING SOON
Retro rally posters and wallpapers for the desk, the wall and the lock screen.
THE BIG PLAN
Real stitched dolls for your desk. We need a maker and a Kickstarter to get there.
How are your products made?
Apparel, hats and mugs are printed on demand by our print partner after you order, so nothing sits in a warehouse waiting. The 5-inch plush dolls do not exist yet. That is what the Kickstarter is for.
Where is my order?
You get a confirmation email when you order and a tracking email when it ships. If something looks wrong, use the Contact page and we will sort it out.
What payment methods do you accept?
All major credit and debit cards, through Square's secure payment processing.
What is your return policy?
Because items are printed to order, the details live on our Refunds and Returns page, linked in the footer of every page.
Where are the terms and the privacy policy?
In the footer of every page: Terms and Conditions, Privacy Policy and Opt-out preferences.
Are the dolls really going to be made?
That is the plan. We are looking for a maker and for a Kickstarter launch. If you sew, make plush, or know someone who does, head to the Make Them Real page.
Is this satire?
Yes. Deplorable Dolls is parody and caricature artwork about public life.
Get first word on drops, character reveals and the Kickstarter launch.
