On Truth
This many years I've been
the fiddle for a tawdry song
and cheap I was to croak, to clap,
to be a well rehearsed deceit,
dancing to dishonest fairytales.
No more! the hole is dug,
it is my hole; I there belong,
glimmers of a dancing light above the rim,
hints of a mid-day sun.
If to myself for this I must remain,
thrown to the silent cellar,
leave me not awake and begging,
leave as i lay in fairer pastures dreaming
of a carefree life,
romantic wheatfields golden.
Let me live the life, the lie distorted;
to make merry in my madness waiting
in such a place where someday one may come
back to this lying sinner pardon gave.
hopeful in narcotic stupor rich,
waiting on the fulfillment of a promise never made.
The promise that this season of a fruitless yield
may on the eve of next year's spring-time bring,
that apparition with a crown of garlands
Scoundrel! they may say,
that it is too late for me the pity card to play,
the words, kindness, and the flowers
blue electric have they lied,
their bloom a brief reminder
of a false sincerity remind
True it is to say I've played the fool
amid a myriad of tired faces worn
clothing the insincere--afraid,
not knowing what to be yet I do swear:
a flower of our nature's crown,
in silence cannot lie,
only the false prophet with the rose an emissary.
And these lies, the ghosts of yesterday,
whose apparition haunts the day,
what new disgrace by morrow yet may bring
the dawn to bear upon another promise empty.
And good intentions do but clothe deed,
thus flung to the wind are they,
dandelion puffs lost in the breath of summer
scatter as they all somewhere to seed
Somewhere amongst the fields whose plot so fair
may come the most fragrant, scent of the subtle flower,
that subtle flavor whose fair bloom is purest truth,
naked and unaware of shame, nothing to hide
We lesser men, scoundrels of the world!
Exalt in our edifice of empty repartee
The softest of the world might seal
the fountain where springs forth the lie
This poor jest does well to undress
the louse unnerved by his own hand deceived.
the fiddle for a tawdry song
and cheap I was to croak, to clap,
to be a well rehearsed deceit,
dancing to dishonest fairytales.
No more! the hole is dug,
it is my hole; I there belong,
glimmers of a dancing light above the rim,
hints of a mid-day sun.
If to myself for this I must remain,
thrown to the silent cellar,
leave me not awake and begging,
leave as i lay in fairer pastures dreaming
of a carefree life,
romantic wheatfields golden.
Let me live the life, the lie distorted;
to make merry in my madness waiting
in such a place where someday one may come
back to this lying sinner pardon gave.
hopeful in narcotic stupor rich,
waiting on the fulfillment of a promise never made.
The promise that this season of a fruitless yield
may on the eve of next year's spring-time bring,
that apparition with a crown of garlands
Scoundrel! they may say,
that it is too late for me the pity card to play,
the words, kindness, and the flowers
blue electric have they lied,
their bloom a brief reminder
of a false sincerity remind
True it is to say I've played the fool
amid a myriad of tired faces worn
clothing the insincere--afraid,
not knowing what to be yet I do swear:
a flower of our nature's crown,
in silence cannot lie,
only the false prophet with the rose an emissary.
And these lies, the ghosts of yesterday,
whose apparition haunts the day,
what new disgrace by morrow yet may bring
the dawn to bear upon another promise empty.
And good intentions do but clothe deed,
thus flung to the wind are they,
dandelion puffs lost in the breath of summer
scatter as they all somewhere to seed
Somewhere amongst the fields whose plot so fair
may come the most fragrant, scent of the subtle flower,
that subtle flavor whose fair bloom is purest truth,
naked and unaware of shame, nothing to hide
We lesser men, scoundrels of the world!
Exalt in our edifice of empty repartee
The softest of the world might seal
the fountain where springs forth the lie
This poor jest does well to undress
the louse unnerved by his own hand deceived.