PUPPET SONNET

Every one of us plays various roles:

characters by Shakespeare, Orwell, Tyl;

while we choose them, or so we suppose,

we play with élan, quite happy, thrilled.

The ring-master steers us with his cane,

there’s roaring applause, a brash brass band,

till one day, for good, fate takes its aim,

shot between the eyes, you meet your end.

Not even the ancient backstage crew,

mangey, rickety, bald, have a clue,

who it is that’s pulling at the strings.

We are puppets, old, new, everyone –

but won’t someone, dammit, please let on,

which fucked fairytale it is we’re in?