Spoken Intro – dry, sarcastic, over minimal guitar and noise] Once upon a Christmas, in a gold-plated suite, they rolled an old king to the camera on wheels. His mind was snowed in, but his phone still worked great, and every wolf at the door brought a gift and a leash. The tech bro-ligarchs wrapped him up in fiber-optic tinsel, the foreign cash came down like dirty snow, and the country watched their favorite show, old man puppet, tap-dancing for one more vote. Merry crisis. [Verse 1 – fast punk] They gave him a script-glow screen to read, “Say you love freedom while you sell every need.” He fumbles the lines, they scroll by his eyes, signs away futures for a slice of the pies. Big tech choir hums in the boardroom light, “We own the feed, we own their rights.” Data in chains, hearts in the scroll, click by click, they hollow the souls. [Pre-Chorus – building, shouted] Strings on his wrists, strings on his jaw, smile for the donors, break every law. If the check clears, let the cameras roll, he’ll pawn the flag and say, “it’s still on the pole.” [Chorus – shouted hardcore punk, gang vocals] Little puppet boy, pa-rum-pa-pum-pay, Dance for the money, make the truth go away. Tech bro-ligarchs sing, “Rah-rah, hooray,” We’ll buy your conscience cheap this holiday. Little puppet boy, pa-rum-pa-pum-pay, Smile for the strongmen, praise what they say. Anyone with dirt or a sack full of gold, Gets a key to the kingdom and the country to hold. [Verse 2 – same energy as Verse 1] There’s a file in a vault, there’s a tape in the dark, names like Christmas lights around a private park. Hands on the puppets, whispers in the room, blackmail carols ring in a broke nation's doom. Any flag, any faith, any thief, any state, kiss the ring, stroke the ego, you can eat off the plate. Open up the coffers, tear out the floor, he’ll sell the whole house once his foot’s in the door. [Bridge – half spoken, half screamed, heavier] While he chases applause through dementia fog, we drown in ads and algorithm smog. Feed their rage, farm their fears, Merry breakdown, Happy New Year. Sell off the future, brick by brick, call it a bargain, call it a trick. Freedom for sale, two-for-one on pain, mental health melted down for gain. [Final Chorus – bigger, more chaotic, last time] Little puppet boy, pa-rum-pa-pum-pay, Lost in the spotlight, mind gone astray. Tech bro-ligarchs cheer, “Dance when we play,” We’re burning the kingdom for more data today. Little puppet boy, pa-rum-pa-pum-pay, We’re done with your circus, we won’t obey. From the streets to the screens, let the noise bells ring, We’ll take back our Christmas, we’ll cut all your strings. [Tag – shouted, a cappella or minimal band] Cut the feed! Cut the strings! No more puppets, no more kings!
