Are you sad, pretty girl?
All your puppets have gone:
burnt away their strings
and run off--
They've found they can do better
than needing
your fleeting
smile to save and damn them.
And one by one, they have
ripped away the traces of
your glamour,
and learnt
that they are real boys;
ones who can love
unlike you do,
truly and sweetly and
for more than themselves.
Pretty girl, have you noticed?
Every twisted lie
turns you a little bit
more wooden:
you'll be a puppet, too.
But nobody will want
to play on your strings, love:
they've learned to live
committed;
away from you,
they've learned to live.
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