To a Liar

The color of your tongue Rhymes not with your song: No longer the deeper red Of the truly well-fed But the darker black Of one in bare lack; What lies do to the lips And to The Dishonest that quips; Your charcoal tongue, a mark of Cain Spares you not a deserved pain… And – see? – 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 with linger: A seven-word–per-minute, With a face dully lit… Only a straight cook at your eyes And punishment becomes your prize; Now you’ll have to release The True Or you shall be jailed without a shoe?