Puppet Box
Take my mind and hold it,
It seems that someone sold it,
To a puppeteer of things,
Who has me dancing on his strings.
No price I wouldn’t pay,
So the master goes away,
Leaves the dolls to mind their tea,
And leaves my broken mind to me.
There is no inbox for complaints,
Only boxes of red paints,
That he takes onto his fingertips,
And draws a smile on my lips.
But when he takes us from his box,
And all the strings come up in knots,
He cuts all ties, so no more twirls,
For these complicated girls.
He likes only simple things,
With no scars to twist or catch his strings,
No sneaky fingers to pick the locks,
Of his tiny little puppet box.
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