Had I been told that a man, like any, Was born, lived on a lie, and flourished on that lie â I wouldâve laughed, perhaps spit-take-worthy But without fail, I wouldâve descended Into contemplation, Maybe even madness. After all, some meaning mustâve been found. Meaning in a lie, or lying as a means? Perhaps coded within Is a great truth concealed: The sacrifice of liberal living. Oh, but what a beautiful butterfly... Seasoned variation, Infinite loop vortex, Sucks in the feeble â Thanks for stopping by! You see, all of human anatomy, Is but a field of holes, Through time, mapped, recorded, The holes just await their pegs â âShout for me!" Screamed the man born on lies, suitcase in tow. He rummaged through: lipids, A tuft of sprayed-on fur (Everything gave a stench of aerosol), Flasks labelled âhormonesâ, seemingly outsourced, Then finally, he stopped, Pulled out a firearm, And blasted relentlessly, with brute force. As the dust settled, and the smoke gave way, Just like that, he vanished, His trails deftly covered, Having left even more holes in his wake. We can attest of his follies, the man On a real pedestal, In the realest of worlds â Whatâs left to laugh at? You are ignorant.
