Fresh Veins for a Chameleon
The con man wears a greasy, porcelain grin.
Trumpets like a swan but has the soul of a raven.
From a paper mâché pulpit, he'll surely sling.
Thrice tainted blood drops passed off as gems.
His compliments are marbled with plastic.
Spray-painted over in fool's gold.
From your bones he whittles drumsticks.
His words are lukewarm, but the heart rattles cold.
Simply put, he's flaccid and fancies attention.
A little imp tugging at the locks of his fantasy.
Wait long enough and his porcelain cracks.
Leaking out a blackness and horrible stench.
When exposed, he'll suddenly slink away.
Rest assured, this vampish chameleon.
Will reinvent and sniff out a fresh vein.
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