Lies

If I said the moon is blue

And that no lie is ever true,

Should I believe myself or you,

You who once knew the truth?

A ticket bought at a liar’s booth

Is worth a hundred billion dollars,

The blind, deaf, dumb man hollers,

As the crowd stampedes to buy its

Own, so quickly torn to little bits

And ticker-taped into the streets,

Soon grown to enormous sheets

Of gray that once was black and white.

It is a petty insane sight.

There is the found and what one seeks —

Both become an idee fixe,

One thing and one alone

That morphs, like the game telephone,

The moon into a blaring tone.