The fact of the matter, ain’t the matter of the fact
Nor he promised to be, ever, truth-teller
Messiah, we made, of that artifact
His black and white lies, a bestseller!
We wake up, to his, morning cant, each day
A tangle of fibs, weaved thru, TVs, net and dailies
Every moment, seems to be, his guile’s giveaway
No respite at night too, radios play, his lullabies!
When ink ain’t enough, he engraves in blood
Diktats for posterity, history for minions
To dare him, is akin to, wrestling pig, in mud
What’s the point anyway, we live on, obliged opinions!
Why we love, to be guinea pigs, in a phony society
For the trials, by parodists, our lionized sadists!
Who merchandize our souls, at the cost of piety
Flaunt our fears on flagpoles, our prized Propagandists!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra