Tied together, pulled apart,
weary of the needle’s knot,
clothed in finery from a time of yore.
Scratched and cut, shaved and buffed,
tailored from the carver’s cuff,
wooden flesh beneath these eyes of glass.
Dancing, dancing, on the string
knowing that future brings
not but more, more of this life of lies.
Puppetmaster calls to walk—
stiff commands, he cannot balk
Walk he must, until these strings are cut.
But at that night, with crew asleep,
Did puppet from his perch did leap,
cutting out the lines that stole his life.
Falling flat, moving none,
his time astring at long last done,
the puppet laid still as wood upon the floor.
For without strings and hand of master,
a puppet can move no faster
than the wood from which the claimed are carved.
And at next morning, after pastor,
comes the evil puppetmaster
to put his king back in the seat of throne.
Strung again and again
kept together with his kin,
the Puppet Theater dances, dances, dances for its crowd.