Love makes us liars, but not in the traditional sense Love makes us liars, but not how you think The smell of eggs fills the air, she made you breakfast. You don't like eggs that much, but you swallow with a smile You comment they are delicious. All the while the thought of the lie is making you tense, Only for you to lose your sense, as you wake up the next day, with eggs on your plate.
Blue constantly coats black And black again to be smothered in more blue How do you like your eggs in the morning? I like mine with a black eye. Boiled or fried? I’m satisfied, as long as my honour is torn apart.