• In that forgotten part of town
    Where wasted hopes and dreams abound,
    A wrinkled man with life near end,
    In hopes to have at least one friend,
    Fashioned bits of wood and things
    And made a puppet run by strings.

    He sat alone for hours on end,
    Conversing with his only friend
    And found delight within the fact
    That he controlled it's every act.
    He told it how he never had
    A chance, since all his luck was bad
    Although he'd tried so to succeed -
    The puppet nodded and agreed.

    And how his journeys in romance
    Had never given him a chance,
    And wasn't it a crying shame
    That he was always held to blame
    When everyone knew, oh so well,
    That life is but a living Hell,
    Controlled by lust and power and greed?
    The puppet nodded and agreed.

    With patience that would rival saints,
    That puppet sat through all complaints
    And, with each little expert tug,
    He'd droop his head or bow or shrug
    And give some comfort to the man
    Who held his lifelines in his hand
    And helped to fill a lonely need
    When he just nodded and agreed.

    Senility increased with time
    As did the old man's pantomime,
    And feverish fingers pulled with glee
    The puppet's dance of misery.
    They never left each other's side
    Until the day both stopped and died.
    We found them lying, hand in hand,
    The puppet - and his wooden friend.