when solid truth accost their faces
leaving  vivid double pastings in pink
and firstly glowing the reddening of shamed burning cheeks
comes the white-washed sermon of the born poltroons
its the blushes made by the wintry winds on our pale complexions
they lie to themselves
as if we do not see the truckloads of insecurities
and body full of inadequacies
they carry around in plain sight
some wits laughs
that
that they probably blend in with the snow
and in hiding their vapid and vacuously depraved entities
conned the phrase
as pure as the driven snow
some things are not even worth dignifying with contempt
in my land I do not fight and steal from travellers
and blame my shamed burning faces on the winter cold
or invent tales about a greedy pig stealing food from my child
I have the abilities to earn or make
all I need without rancour or shame