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Puppets, their strings, all muddled
like headphones, confused, befuddled
Tired, and saggy, worn out, baggy
Waiting, to be tugged, and sometimes hugged

Their eyes,their soulless eyes,devoid,
Any action, unless pushed, they try to avoid
To the market they go, To the office they go
To umpteen places, all places they know

Come hell, high water, typhoon or thunder
They won’t move a muscle, lest it be a blunder
Their master, they obey, lest they be cut out
They cower, and cringe, when their master doth shout

Bravado, Machismo, Courage, Gall
Puppets, they have but these virtues of all
Husbands, they’re called, but what they most fear
Are those days when they’re called,”My dear!”