Puppet Shell

He moves when he's moved,
He does as you please,
It's him in his crispy puppet shell...

The strings are his life,
Bound to them forever,
He lives without freedom or will. The bell
on his cap, it jingles in sync,
With his every tiny, measured out step...

To say the steps are his, a great wrong indeed,
After all, the puppet master authors them too,
In a great, masterful orchestration,
One that makes you believe they're his own..
Sadly, sadly, it's but the truth...

You're made to believe that it is though,
And his life goes on, in the hands of another
Weird indeed, this puppet existence
Infact, he finds it rather
painful, moving to tugs and pulls of his strings,

But what can he do?, the poor little thing..
Only his mind is his own, he can think,
No strings attached, freedom indeed!
All he can think is of how it would to be freed,
From these shackles of sorts, villainous strings,
His puppet shell into motion they bring..

His is a tale of bonded misery,
Where motive and emotion have no say,
He is, and will remain, a puppet shell,
A poor, plain puppet shell, till the end of his days..