There's that black pot
Looming large
And shadowing the kettles,
All sooted like the lot.

There's the master
Lean and tall
And capped, squared;
(encompassed actually)
In checkered skins
and oddly fitting kilts.
A Scotsman on his rite,
A concrete slab afore
The pinafore
And big brother watching
Amusingly.

All we're, all are
Stringed puppets of the Master,
Playing lyres to the tunes
That drop like oil
From his dish,
And flowing like wine and corn
At the mercy of his secret will.

There's that couldron,
Looming black and large
Above the city and the sea.
One wonders what he stirs
Within his secret lake.

There're the stooges
Shadowed in his pomp
And pageantry, plump
And pride and pose.
Mere puppets of his will.