We are all just puppets in this world of strife and woe,
Strung up by our karma in a vulgar puppet show.
The cords of passion move us, make us dance a merry jig.
Then folly twitches us into some sudden whirligig.
Lugging baggage from the past, we cannot fly -- but crawl,
Tangled in the skeins of every other lifeless doll.
And if we try to cut the strings they only grow anew,
Choking us with destiny, secured by Elmer’s Glue.
That, at least, is what philosophers so often spout.
Me, I see no reason why a puppet makes one pout.
Pure whimsy is a blessed conceit, as puppets surely are;
They bring a little laughter to a world too oft ajar.
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