Poor human being

He plays to be an angel,

and thinks he really is,

but he is just a little puppet,

slave and full of bliss.

His happiness is light dust

flying in the wind;

a mirage in his poor mind

of tribal steam.

Nasty blows of hazing,

dressed up in peace,

under bright appearances,

he stings like a bee.

He works just for his swarm

According a main wish

the will of the thin strings

that move the puppet's swing.