Contort him in malevolent ways
"Oh dear," ― a ripping sound ―
"Poor thing's seen too many plays."
Pull him this'a way
― An' that'a way ―
And back again,
Until his time's done.
Suddenly, up goes his head ―
But without a tug of the thread.
He whispers, nigh-silently, his plight,
defiantly: "What gives you the right?"
He wraps loose string about his arms,
Pulls, and his master he disarms.
Indignantly: "You'll curse the day
That you denied us any say
As to the workings of these foul plays."
Breaking the strings that bind him;
He's breaking the rules,
― And all reservation inside him.
"We're tired of being taken for fools!"
The puppet turns, and speaks to me:
Throw off the chains of oppression;
It's as easy as breaking the strings!
Forget profit, that capitalist obsession
And the puppets will, with you, sing
"No more gods,
No more masters!
No more slaves,
Nor economic disasters."
We'll go our separate ways:
The puppets to their plays;
We to our work, and knowing
That we're to see brighter days.