Under Thumb At the Point Of A Gun

Pull the strings, they call me…
Puppet; I’m no master.
Enslaved to life forecaster.

Twister of words and enforcing moves.
Speak what you want it won’t change the truths;
For what has been carved will remain ’til the end.
Weaving the patchwork that demands we do bend.
Out of the pan and into the flames.
Don’t remember a single one of your claims.
Buried waste deep and left to sink down.
Opinion from you is everybodies a clown.
Number on a card that is easily replaced.
Why you have no care for all you’ve erased?

Pull the strings, they call me…
Puppet; I’m no master.
Enslaved to life forecaster.
Bitter from the bastard.
Soon I will be scattered.

Foray into the minds of your flock.
In actual truth you see them as stock.
A plentiful resource used to feed your ego.
It’s why you hate when one says no.
Feed them to machines designed for the kill.
Such a display gives you a real thrill.
It’s why you indulge and scream with glee.
Remnants are treated like unwanted debris.
What a disgrace toward something precious.
If only justice would come to bless us.

Pull the strings, they call me…
Puppet; I’m no master.
Enslaved to life forecaster.
Bitter from the bastard.
Soon I will be scattered.

But don’t walk the alleys or you might not survive.
You know better than to expose your suicide.
For we the people will put you against the wall.
And what you’d hear would be a final call.

Pull the strings, they call me…
Puppet; I’m no master.
Enslaved to life forecaster.
Bitter from the bastard.
Soon I will scattered.

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