Once there was a lie with a wry eye.
It went spy, spy, spy and vie, vie, vie and trapped its fly with glittered eye and pretend sigh and had a cry that was — well, spry.
That’s the thing about lies — they have great clarity of mind, method and madness, and they are very effective at luring, webbing and enmeshing their victims.
“I am just like you,” the lie said to what it wanted. It wasn’t.
“I’m just right for you,” said the lie. It wasn’t.
“I believe what you do,” said the lie. It didn’t.
And then, it was celebration time.
And that’s the other thing about lies — they are really, really good at getting everyone to celebrate, to high-five the lie with lots of pie and every guy in suit and tie.
And so this lie flounced, pronounced and announced and after that, the partying began. At home, and in odd pairs here and there, everyone said they knew it wasn’t true, and they didn’t like it.
But out in public, when they gathered around food everyone smiled and acted like this was the best thing since sliced dice. And that settled that, and so the lie drove off with its fly baked in its pie.
Time passed, until one day the lie decided it wanted something else.
Then it told the truth.
No party followed.