The Craftsman
The work of a master craftsman, his labours were passion
Put his soul into his work, more than we can imagine
He was the talk of village, his stall was swamped at the fetes
Dioramas, his microcosms, worked on from dawn until late
A creator of worlds, that he towered over; a giant
Supplied to spoiled brats, Royal Rats, bowed to his clients
It's a paradox to be a subject, but rule a thousand earths
To build them by wood and paintbrush from tower tip to turf
Then doff your cap to the officials as they tax you to poverty
Barely pay your own rent but own a thousand properties
The tortured artist hurts the hardest when he lets his creations go
Sees his projects, all his children, as they skip down the road
In the hands of happy customers, smiles of bliss from his love
The rainbow of his colour palette is mixed with his blood
In his dreams the figurines wave as they depart from home
Hit the crossroads, lost souls, 'Don't leave!' a heartfelt groan
Cold sweats in his lonely house, memories of a lost spouse
Barren womb before the tomb, no seeds to grow before the drought
Round hole in his heart these square pegs couldn't fill
Beady eyes like twin voids in their heads give him chills
Drove his art to greater heights, the cost was time, he'd pay the price
To try to bridge the gap from lifeless kids to his wayward wife
Trapped in limbo, this old man, surrounded by unfeeling toys
Geppetto sent a prayer to a star one day he'd have a real boy