Cut me some slack.
Give me all the slack you can.
This string you've got me on is too tight—too taught,
Not exactly ideal for dancing.

There's a hook in my ribs pulling me up,
A jerk from my feet,
A tug on my arm, charming the crowd, shrouded in bright lights.
My master, the puppet master is
Out of sight, out of mind.
Well, what are you waiting for?

Dance, puppet, dance.

Dance the dance of master and slave,
Give a rigid wave, save face, brave her frigid smile a while and dance to the grave—
And for God's sake, behave yourself, would you?
It's step, kick, step, twirl; what in the world are you doing?
Your form
Yet to conform to the norm of the storming combine is
Off time. Spine straight, chin up,
Neck out. Then again, I've always stuck my neck out for you even if it cost me my
Head. Head my way, stay with me and bury your head in my shoulder.
I'm the one to shoulder your leaded fury. The jury agrees and finds me
Guilty of treason, the reason out of reach and its reach out of reason;
It's hunting season and I'm game.
I'm the bullseye, ready, aim
For me, the porcelain, painted, perfectly puckered puppet, your little
Marionette, starting to sweat under these bright lights.

I'm certain it's curtains for me, my strings are tangling
And mangling the polished wood. Good grief, the crowd is losing interest.
So are you, cue the next act and tactfully douse the lights.
Well, what are you waiting for?

^{Dance, puppet, dance.}