I am the jester, wordsmith, courtier, joke;
I tell you kings all rather not you hear,
And when my lies emerge from voicing’s cloak,
What shock! What sorrow! Ah, what truths you fear!
My mouth is humour—lie and truth bespoke:
Each thing I say speaks more than what’s heard here;
My tongue a blade, and through my throaty croak,
I brush aside your dead, unhearing ear.
I am a poet, wordsmith, liar, jest;
All truths belied by lies that may not be.
When all I say lies slain for all inspection,
You’ll find a word or two in retrospection—
The lies so pleasing, truths you did not see—
If this be true, my pen I thus will rest.