I’m a Puppet, Not a Pincushion

Well you can’t blame George on this one
Because he didn’t make the call
As much as so many wish him to fail
You can’t make him take the fall.

An angry act of God, a biblical rain
Many lost it all to no apparent gain
He’s a fabricated puppet at best
A tightrope talker at Geppetto’s behest.

Chosen as Dad’s heir apparent whipping boy
Trustworthy mouthpiece, multinational billionaire’s boy
History grants him credit, casts his shame
They’ll make him a legend, paint on his blame.

Oh decisions are made in DC in the obvious sense
But no one with modern eyes buys this pretense
The media reports it like an impish little boy
Twisting the truth convincingly — a masterful ploy.

How carefully crafted our future, how sculpted his script
Our American lifestyle bruised, government integrity ripped
Conditioned to accept lies, three hundred million strong
Everyone knows we’re right, everyone knows we’re wrong.

In unassailable towers gloat puppet master minions
Unconscious subjects cower abound, bridled by opinions
Where might makes right and profit’s power’s god
Move along little doggie, here’s pharma money’s cattle prod.

So don’t curse double-U, for he’s only following the plan
The words aren’t his because he ain’t really The Man
The planet’s human royalty beckons and wags its little finger
And Georgy answers in tune as a marionette lounge singer.

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