out of your neck is strings,
that hook up to a set of hands,
you move as they swing,
living by their commends,
you say, not me, I am free,
but the reality is actually,
your a tract, part of an act,
living by what they say, each and ever day,
do not think you are alone,
no one really thinks on their own,
but in some way, shape or form,
everyone is a puppet, it's the norm,
your wants, and needs, your greeds,
your goal, even what drives your soul,
is linked to the strand, held by the hand,
of the puppeteer, so I hope it is clear,
no one is free,
not you, nor me,
so open your eyes,
to the I'm free lies,
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