The creation of some god for its child,
Really just a puppet with neither skin nor hide.
Inanimate and born to serve and make one laugh,
Or animate and made with too much breath?
Its maker, whether god or creator or none,
One day simply happens to be gone.

Can something die that can not rot?
Maybe it will once you forgot.
This puppet will sooner or later find out,
In the land of Equestria, what its existence is about.

Now I must say, with great dismay,
That it will be time,
For the pen to lay,
And to end this rhyme.

This is just, likely, very confusing story. It will be about a puppet, of sorts, made by some magical being, which may or may not be alive, being forgotten until it comes to Equestria and lots of scenarios happen.
The reason for its confusion is mostly the fact that it was entirely thought up while I was quite sick (probably the flu, certainly not any very popular recent virus) and lying in bed.