The puppeteer cuts the strings.
One at a time they snap and ping.
Each limb falling limp, until
There’s only the head to rest
Sadly against its breathless breast.
With a clatter of varnished wood
He drops his friend into the mud.
Saddened by his brutal act, though,
He picks its body up again and
Hopes it’s not in too much pain.
He’ll take it back and clean its face;
Wash its clothes and then replace
The string he callously snipped.
For weeks he’ll ask “Why, oh, why
Did he hurt and wish it to die?’
But he won’t like the answer.