Why did Truth start and then stop?
Did you drop too theatrically down
on a knee overzealously pleading
with her to impart every trick of her
vast artistry? Did you take it too sadly
to heart when she swept her attention
away from the simpering you to relay it
all billowingly out to me? Cannily, I had
uncovered the name she adored being
called, the discreetly Victorian “Verity.”
It conveyed just the right sainted scent
of the sort of acclaim she’d eternally
sought. Music and sense which attended,
with art, her exalted position and fed her
astute philosophic sweet tooth. And oh!
I so wanted to know that she knew that
I knew she believed I believed – for her
her sake, and sooth’s sake – in The Truth!
Forsooth! So, erasing all trace of asperity,
I dared at last to entreat her: “Oh Verity!
Sip with me every last drip I can squeeze
from the juice of the fruits of your Sooth!”
She assented – and now we relentlessly
do what we can to endow all the rest
of the World with the brew: pouring her
wondrous libation (iced) into small cups
for a nominal price to the lost likes of you
(should a sip of the Truth be what you
would pursue), here and there at the odd
summer street fair and carnival booth.