Sunday, 25 June 2017

The writer telling tales

I do not like
That you will blend the truth.

You see, I remember
What you said before.

That had the scent of truth.
This doesn't.

I do not like
You misrepresent a view
You were too quick to hold.

You said you did not like my kind.
You said it clearly.

 But now, teller of tales…

Oh now, you've changed
Oh now, you love us dearly.

We are so precious when it suits.

 Such pragmatism
 Has me squirming in my chair.

And a sickly scent of rotting fruit
Is in the air as you go global
With a lie.