The Toymaker Must Die

The poet must sing.

Please don't ask why,

it's the nature of things.

But if you must ask

I'll tell you the story.

It will be a task

and quite a bit gory.

In fairy tales of reality, the innocent lie

in the blurry edges of confession,

not yet guilty,

but soon by and by.

Pleasures of heroism inflate the poet,

called to lilt a profession of omission,

the truth as he knows it.

The toys come to life

marching of their own accord.

The poet writes refrains

of their dripping battle swords.

"The toymaker must be called to account,"

says the poet with his foun-tin pen,

ink rusting the words.

"The toymaker must die.

Send for the men."

The poet must sing.

He continues again,

"The toymaker's soldiers

killed 10,000 men.

Their swords are quite sharp,

sharper than any before,

used for slicing, dicing,

beheading, and more.

For every one man's life

his, mine, or yours

ten of theirs will be taken

to even the score.

And just to be sure

that there's killing

no more

we'll take the toymaker, his toys,

and his store."

It was told to the people

the toys were coming on geldings.

But nothing of their swords

and how they were melting.

It is quite true

The swords--

made of plastic,

not steel.

They were evaporating.

There weren't even wounds

to be healed.

The toys were no more soldiers

than you or me.

But if anyone's to blame--

The toymaker

said he.

And what else could the poet

do but agree?

"The toys have returned,"

so the poet sings,

"with empty hands,

missing their king."

The toymaker said this

on his very last breath

That he knew nothing

of killing and death.

All he wanted

was to use his hands

to put smiles on the faces

of the kids in the land.

In fairy tales of reality--

The toymaker must die.

The poet must sing.

All go to sleep now,

we don't speak of such things.