Liar, lyer... pants on fire.

Oh I know the liars in their jest,
are tidily doing what they know best.

Some are skilled and smooth as silk,
stoking the auger of the other's ilk
while boring the cavern's of ancient ties
and secretly stowing the past with lies.

The All Knowing spies.

And then there are the blatant ones
who promise their lies with skull and bones.
Arrrgh, the jaunty pirate lives and speaks
in the tongues of what his mate hand seeks.

Let sleeping dogs lie... we can shear them

as we're in cahoots with their spies. Later Vader.

The tale goes on for many years as the kids
lie bleating year after year. A pack of lies is
the belief that is dear to the goat of the past
and all of his seers... tiny little puppets
who don't mean a thing, just sad little egos
who forgot how to sing... lyers are leading.

Somewhere out in a white streamer sky,
a lyre is waiting for clouds to roll by.
The fire is burning, and chaos is churning
but the meek are waiting for the perfect sigh.

It's the cusp of burning pants that needs to burn dry.

Is it a lyre or harp that meek angels will play?
(or a tiny voice that will sing this away).