the puppet has cut his strings

they pulled the stars down one by one

hauled up the moon to shine upon

a velvet curtain rising

now her puppet has cut his strings

the footlights glare

the trumpets blare

why is your face drawn on so glum

old chum

paintbrush dragging on a drum

the rimshot on the punchline that you fumbled

the crowd went home and left you

for dead

my old woodenhead

took the thimble and the thread

choked back tears like a cymbal

the breath is slow and shallow too

the sky is bright venetian blue

the cardboard sun is all ablaze

the air is painted clifford brown

caressing yesterdays"