All of us have it in our minds to be free

To do and say whatever our hearts desire

And this we may do as long as we can see

But when we attempt to control another's fire

We become little more than a puppet ourselves

Whose strings are pulled so very, very tight 

As we jangle aimlessly from an empty shelf

From early morn till wee small hours of night



And we wait for another to pull up our supports

For without a puppeteer we have no real thoughts

All is controlled from without our own true sense

For inside, all there is - is splinters without end



- Tristram