A contract of contrition.
How sorry can a cynic really be?
How can we tell the real tears from the croc’s?
How can we trust the words they let us see
without the words they write outside the box?
The morphing of the morphine-addled brains
confirm then contradict themselves with ease.
The serpent sits behind and draws the reins,
to steer them further into their disease.
The dark disease that lets them fool themselves.
Which waves a tragic wand, then wafts away
to hide behind imaginary elves
who take both blame and credit for the fray.
How sorry can a cynic really be!
No $hit, Sherlock! But why’re you asking me?
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(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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