A lie is hiding spot between the lines
of wisdom etched in sleek iambic stone,
deceit subliminal in metered rhymes
that’s known to harried bard and bard
alone.
The knave constructs his fiction full aware
he’s deigned it just to serve a mottled
beat
Convinced that readers very seldom care,
he tosses back his myth and whiskey neat.
With frequency the victims are deceived
by lovely words subverted to a goal
designed to fit a frame that’s preconceived
to keep the versifier’s meter whole.
A boundless sea of gall do writers steer.
I cite the wretched case presented here.
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