They play a constant game of Let’s Pretend.
They’re pretty much impervious to facts.
Into a hell of pleasure they descend.
They don’t recall their failures or their acts.
If you present a list, they say: “Relax!”
If you insist, their friendly eyes grow cold.
You’re forcing them to cover up their tracks.
You’re telling tales that never should be told.
Why can’t you just assume their lead is gold
As all their many fans serenely do?
Why can’t you just accept the stuff they’ve sold
To everybody else? You loser, you!
Why can’t you get some simple common sense?
Reality is rooted in pretense.
(First appeared in The Lyric, v. 93, n. 4, Fall 2013)