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.
