Poem: The Liar
Young Carol had a blackened heart; she loathed her fellow Man.
Deceit was her delight, and so one night she hatched a plan:
"No greater joy have I yet felt than fooling drooling twits!
"Deceiving all, the short and tall, takes but a bit of wit."
She hastened to the daycare, volunteering thrice a week
To nuzzle babes and clean them up and pinch their puffy cheeks.
She'd tell their folks, "Your cuties' tiny toes are great to taste!"
But deep inside, she laughed; she thought they reeked of liquid waste.
The kennel on the corner her grand kindness did extol
When she showed up bright and early to refill the water bowls.
Vets ooh'd and aww'd like children when she cradled pups who cried,
Satisfied within her mind to know she wished they'd died.
The cancer ward on Forty-Four'd swear she was pure of heart.
Their brand new infant wing was built; she'd played the major part
In drilling, pounding nails, and painting pleasant placid streams,
But she had fooled the patients: She delighted in their screams.
She never passed a stranded car whose tires she'd not mend.
She purchased reams of paper, lonely soldiers' cards to send.
Her seat was always given to the old folks on the train.
She proffered liters of her blood to end sick children's pain.
As she sweltered in the sun while digging wells in distant Guam,
She snickered in the knowledge that she'd rather drop a bomb.
Giving pills and shots to kids in war-torn lands afar
Was joyous: Her deception now had truly raised the bar!
No one was the wiser when she cracked, all by her lone,
A mathematic problem both unsolved and tough as bone
That hid the means to wrap a protein just the proper way
To synthesize a natural cure, all cancers to allay!
The foolish people of the Earth had not a single clue
When they asked Carol—savior, saint!—what next she planned to do.
"Build a road? Another bridge? A fourteen-thousandth well?"
She took the golden medal, beamed, and willed them all to Hell.
So clever was her scheme, at last, at age one hundred eight,
Surrounded by descendants mourning her sick twist of fate,
She pulled the strength from God-knows-where to whisper with a grin:
"You worthless clods, behold: A life of perfect, evil sin!"