The puppeteer bought a puppet.
It was status, not love, that got him a trunk. A shiny trunk in which to go. A trunk to show off at every show.
And on every stage the puppet comes out.
To dance a jig to the pull of her strings.
The puppet best do the dance that’s commanded. He forces a smile when all hope has ended.
If he tries to cut strings and fly on his wings he’ll be stopped by the puller and trunked up forever.
And the air in the trunk is dirty and stale. The sicker he gets the more he inhales.