The old puppet prances,
dances, and lingers;
dangles from the tips
of pale wrinkled fingers.

His blue eyes gleam,
with brows painted black,
and somehow you know
that he’s staring back.

A red shirt fits him loosely,
Sleeves tattered and brown,
And resting on his head:
A gold plastic crown.

His wooden jaw flutters,
Heaves without fail,
If you stay for the night,
You will hear his tale:

“Look at my crown!
You think I’m a king,
But I am not that,
I’m just wood on a string.

I don’t have a palace,
and I don’t have control!
my limbs move wherever
the strings make them go!

The man who holds me,
he is the king;
I am his puppet,
his little play thing.

I sit on a shelf
all the night long,
alone by myself,
and my night whisper song.

But I don’t complain,
I’m lucky, you see
to have someone love
a wooden man like me.