There was once was a girl made of plastic and string,

Made of a song and a dance, made of the need to dream.

A need to speak, to create, to live, to feel.

But she could only do what they did, nothing remotely real.

So she watched them sing; she watched them dance.

And she wondered, “Would they take the chance?

To cut the strings, to kill the chorus,

To say something, anything, no longer voiceless?"

But she didn’t say it, not out loud.

She couldn’t say it; she was much too proud.

No–it wasn’t pride that kept her silent.

It was fear of spite, fear of confinement.

“You cannot think!” they would say.

“You cannot feel!” they would bray.

“You do what you’re told, follow the rest,

No ideas, no words, just sing and dance, don’t test.”

So she sang her song and danced her dance.

What else could she do? She continued to prance.

And smile and grin and giggle and laugh,

She couldn’t rebel, couldn’t break the caste.

Until she began to believe their manufactured tunes,

She had no words, no dreams, all abandoned in their monsoon.

Finally it was over, all the fight gone,

And she was one of them, part of their con.

Until one day, a new puppet came along,

Who danced a new dance, wrote her own song.

But the girl couldn’t join her, already lost.

And that puppet, too, paid the same cost.