Little Lindsay lied a lot,
to anyone with ears.
Twisting, turning every thought -
she’d used others for years.
One day she thought she’d pull the wool
over a well trained eye;
forgetting all that would be felt,
through face or words can’t hide.

Up in the air, in blinding clouds, she’d wrinkle at the nose.
For her best mate, her trusted friend
had dried up at the hose.

Riddling lips, grasped one last time,
she tried hard to save face.
But little Lindsay played so poor,
embarrassing disgrace.

For could one trust another who could hate from the shadows?
You’d never know if love and care was being kept in tow.

Letters writ, with seeming guilt, though through those lines remained
the little lies of which every relation would be strained