The puppet sits where better leaders sat,
his strings run upward to a hidden hand.
He signs what's placed before him, tips his hat
to auditors who never understand.
The board convenes in theatre, not in trust—
due process staged, the verdict inked in haste.
They mark the minutes, seal them, let them rust,
while merit rots and sycophants are placed.
But light has ways of finding papered seams:
a whistle, then a flood through every crack.
The many who were silent share their screens,
and what was hidden can't be taken back.
No title earns what only trust can lend—
the team that sees will write how puppet kings end.