Ants go marching one by one,
crushed beneath an oppressive thumb.

A monkey on a throne, you laugh and play;
deceptive smile, the faithful pray.

You made us toys, o child-god king,
our cries and prayers to you, nothing,
our blood and tears, a joy to bring--
as we hang ourselves from the puppet string.

Sick machinations for a clockwork god:
bare the child, spoil the rod.

No wax to fill our sheepish heads,
O honeyed shepherd: your flock, the dead.

You made us toys, o child-god king,
our cries and prayers mean not a thing,
our blood and tears, a joy to bring--
as we hang ourselves from the puppet string.

So we burn our wings and hope to fall,
and turn away from your great hall.

You clap and grin as we descend--
rotting hands, a violent end.

You made us toys, o child-god king,
our cries and prayers to you, nothing,
our blood and tears, a joy to bring--
as we hang ourselves from the puppet string.

12/28/2006

Posted on 12/28/2006
Copyright © 2025 T.J. Carver