I speak to you now,
That you are deviant.
Distressed from your bows,
That doesn't make you so valiant.

The state of being fake,
Is not equal to what you give and take.
Sleeping in a fibber's bed,
That made you not to beg.

I speak to you directly,
That you retain a useless existence.
Screeching from your works so murky,
Until you bled to death with embarrassment.

You're so fake,
That you devour the nasty lake.
Wept until the sun ends,
And you lost all of your friends.
© Joel Gigante