Puppet Master

(Sung with Dylanesque/Irish drone)

Somewhere this winter
In the woods of our life
We scrambled to see
Who carried the knife

Who cuts through the fog
Of discontent’s game
That blinded young fool
Who carries no name

The more things change
The more they stay the same
We look to the “leaders”
To confirm our gain

We’re asked to recover
That golden fleece
Brought in by the wolves
Who promise us peace

Verse 2
In the end we found
No ending at all
Just puppet master’s strings
The dance he’ll call

‘Til days that are comin’
When freedom we see
Take the knife of discontentment
And cut ourselves free

Multiple exposure photograph “Waterside” –
Print available here: https://bluemarblephotography.smugmug.com/Photographs/More-Blackbirds-Etc-I-See-A-Pattern-here/i-f9DfcQF/A


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