Strings Broken

Now lays a coronet of a puppet,


Like a marionette with strings broken


And tokens on its eyes.


With a cracked wooden heart, 


In the sally port of a shoe box, 


On a shelf turning to dust


And lockjaw with splinters forgotten.


A patched-woke minstrel wearing a fool's cap,


Of moppet who's varnish is adrift,


In cold dank dark losing it's glint,


With testicles coughing.


Awaiting its butter to soften,


And sticky goo of worms returning to boo,


Now pining it's puppeteer.

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