The Toymaker Must Die
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.