F.O.O.L. — Fiction On Our Li

Telling lies is a difficult task to manage, Believing you’ll be sold out anytime the truth prevails. But every truth told often feels as cruel as payback; You relying on lies is like a housefly playing with a drunkard. The end of its journey leaves its life damaged. If your false fabrication drags on a long trail, The truth will rise to illuminate the dark, And peel off your deceptive clothes to reveal your true clad. A sugary coated tongue living in falsehood’s mouth, If he points to north, check around — it may be south. Dwelling and swimming in a trickish well, Behavior is pungent; it will surely smell. With the roar of a rocket engine, louder than your composed fairy tale, It crashes into your ape’s mind like an attached furry tail. Now remorse sits beside you, like a shell on a snail, A recall of truth, daily, pleading for bail from its juvenile jail.