You spout lies
like you would spout blood.
Indeed, your blood consists of
nothing but lies.
So when you lie, you do but bleed,
you are trouble I do not need.
And when you bleed, you profusely lie,
is that why you scarcely cry?
What is worse, you cannot confess
to planning and creating this complex mess.
Nearly all you said was utterly fictitious.
You considered your lies to be oddly delicious.
I don’t know if you could help yourself.
If I’m honest, I don’t really care.
You lied to me time and time again,
and that isn’t really fair.
One day, you’ll realise.
Come back to me when you tell honest lies.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem