Crooked

I was born with a crooked tongue,

but that’s alright because yours is forked.

From our sweet lips, grand lies are sung;

our very breath is air we’ve warped.

Every candied word you give me,

does inevitably turn bitter.

I’ll promise you the world with glee,

while crossed fingers make it wither.

Those who are old and—of course—wise,

don’t understand our blood-coated game.

Let them laugh from high in their skies;

in the end, we all bleed the same.