I suppose I could be
A lawyer, Car salesman, Politician,
Then again I could just be a poet,
Lying glibly like a water through a spout.
Opening the morning newspaper,
Predetorially eyeing for bushels of words,
greedily borrowing from obituaries,
scandals and star sightings.
Rolling alphabets into a poignant poem
like a ball of barbed wire.
I would take a pregnant walk,
around graffiti stained neighborhoods
and conjure up the Garden of Eden,
Resurrect the Empire State building
our of random rubble,
Dream up kingly processions
out of burial coaches,
Fathom the Battle of Waterloo out of
a mere domestic brawl,
Or manifest the riches of Tutenkhamen
into your upscale New York Apartment.
For it would all be permissible,
with a little poetic license.
Funny what a pen can do?
Who needs truth when lies
give you wings!
But then again don’t politicians
make more money lying?