He pulls the strings of hate, lives in the forest
In a shotgun cabin without a pillow for love.
He pays out twine, marinated in poison, as into
The Minotaur’s maze, to numb minds below.
He knows how to tangle viperous string into
Cortical realms, neurons fizzing to be strung.
His power fomented from the upcountry baffles
Pundits, his legerdemain refreshing poison in
Marionette skulls unseen. At last he throws his
Hands up in victory, “Look Mom! No strings!”
