To a Liar
You‘re shivering
And your voice quavering;
A wetness on your right palm
And inability to remain calm…
Crazily twisting your middle finger,
Your replies beginning to linger:
Seven words per minute,
With a face dully lit.
Only a straight look at your eyes
And punishment becomes your prize.
Now, you ‘ll have to release “the true”
Or you shall be jailed without a shoe.
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