A writer is congenitally unable to tell the truth and that is why we call what he writes fiction. - William Faulkner
When with a serpent's narrow eyes
Into your eyes I gaze, when I
Your hand press gently, know:
I am all serpent. Yes, it's true,
I loved you once, but now of you
I'm free and glad it's so!
Away! Away! Out of my sight!
I'll with another spend the night.
Back to your good wife haste!
The solace of her wifely love
She'll offer you. Go hence or of
My dancing whip you'll taste!
Like fiery spring, like spring I blaze!
To cinders all who meet my gaze
Will burn. Take care! Take care!
Yes, even he I love must fly
My presence, for he too will die
If he should venture near.
You who are young, you who are old,
Come, bring me gifts and coins of gold,
Heed this my summons, pray.
Over your grizzly heads and fair,
Your foolish heads, my whip with rare
Delight will dance and play!