[poem] How much should we protect and provide for our children in this day and age? Do we do too much… or not enough?
A craftsman carved him out of wood
And he came alive to the world.
Then strings were attached to his head and hands
And arms and legs and toes.
No decisions were made by him,
For the puppeteer made them all.
He walked and danced and skipped and played
As his master worked his strings.
A smudge on him was quickly wiped,
A scratch–quickly mended.
Quilted satin lined his box
To protect him from the cold.
Then one day the strings were cut
And the puppeteer went away.
Without the strings to give him life
The puppet sadly lay.
The rain washed away his painted smile
Replaced by a weather-scratched frown.
Torn and scarred is the puppet now
Half buried in the ground.
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