I am highly strung

I am highly strung

Wound so tight

I could twang,

Snap in two,

Catgut stretched

To its limit.

I am a marionette

Wasn’t she married to Louis the 16th?

I refuse to write Roman numerals here

As it would interfere with

The purity of my republicanism.

Not the American kind

Which venerates the past

In a different way.

The West was won

With honour, apparently.

But a world without Kings

Or demagogues.

How many strings did Marie Antoinette cut

To fulfil her dream.

I prefer Martin Luther King.

His dreams were less self-fulfilling,

More Inspiring.

I wonder what he would make of

Celebrity culture

Stealing the reigns of power

To ride roughshod over the true meaning

Of homespun philosophy,

Self-made man,

Wasn’t that a Golem?

Orange is the new black,

I need to cut those strings

Before the last dance

When the jiggling

Is quite sickening

For the delicate stomach

The truth of things

Can be so hard to digest.

I am no less a puppet

Than the guy next to me.

But I baulk at the idea of a hand

Up my ass.

Too much is made of a proctologist

Having that right of way

But when you have a rectal issue

With damaged tissue

It is likely to happen

Sooner rather than later.

It is why I try

To keep upright

With or without strings.

I am free-standing

Apart from those times

When I have been

Wide-eyed and legless.

Which is a wholly different

Jack in the box.