Someone pulls the strings, br We are but puppets created for a play, br Made to dance or walk or fall, br For the puppet masters whim, br br Who writes my lines? br Choosing the characters that I play? br Can it be I have a choice, br To cut the strings and walk away? br br It it then I'll know the secret? br Understand who controls the fates? br That I will be taken from this stage br and saved for another play? br br Will I ever know the answer br to make the knowledge my joy? br Or am I paying for an indiscretion br a failure from another scene? br br Do we keep repeating and rehersing our lines br Until we get it right? br And for every error that mankind makes br does the puppetmaster start anew? br br The treadmill that we walk br Monuments which we sometimes pass br Several times in rememberance br De ja vous of a tomorrow that we've already played.