Victors of vices,
We were kings of lean to castles.
Smoking was breathing
And breathing was frigid.
Women were objects,
But then again so were we.
Our master of puppets,
At home in his bed,
Dreamt of war.
While the puppets
At war in their shacks,
Dreamt of home.
So in came the women,
Up went the moral.
The peeps became stares;
The touches became feels;
The feels became ghostly
whispers of a love
they would never have.