Master of Puppets

The master of puppets, he sits and creates. The pieces he has, they fit as they shape. His self, his being are in the toys he makes. Precise and caring, the tools never break. He tries his best to bring them to life He's just one man, but his work will suffice He masters his art night after night He sets them aside so calm and polite He never speaks, but his toys always talk. His legs are weak, but his toys always walk. They lead the life he never could. He carves his soul into the wood. He lived and died with them by his side, he lived and died and his puppets, they cried His soul has moved on from this crumbled estate But in the attic, his puppets, they wait.... *Dedicated to my very sick cousin John... Get better soon!*