Millions of strings fill our space At the end of each one, a lonely puppet's face Arms, legs, fingers, mouths and hands Also attached, a puppet show most grand
The strings are jerked day and night So the puppets move ceaselessly, to the puppet master's delight His nimble, slick fingers control with immense skill So that the puppets think that it is their own will
Which makes them repeat actions robotically Hand to mouth, drag deeply, oh so constantly He gives the strings a yank, well-timed The puppet responds with an action well mimed
Hand to mouth, drag deeply, again and again He thinks the cigarette is his friend Although it will kill him in the end Certainly not something on which he can depend