Jared Barhite [More Titles by Barhite
If aught on earth my soul can fire,
'Tis the deception of a liar
Who with soft smoothness of the tongue,
Has promises and pledges strung
To suit all needs that come to hand,
To serve the purpose Satan planned.
Satan himself, I think, would shun
The presence of that artful one,
Who violates truth's sacred laws,
Regardless of the end or cause,
But deems it strategy to live
For the sole purpose to deceive.
If hell has any corner where
Vile culprits may be doomed to share
The merits they richly deserve,
It should be held in strict reserve
For them whose flattery and art
Are used to kill a trusting heart.
Let me abhor, loathe, and despise
The author of those fiendish lies,
Who would for pleasure, greed, or power,
The confidence of youth devour,
And blight the soul with foul distrust,
Or trample honor in the dust.
No sting of pain can e'er atone,
No purging fire was ever known
For cleansing of a heart defiled
By falsehood; though it may be styled
In diction, affability,
It poisons like the upas tree.
Beware the tongue that will deceive,
At last 'twill cause your soul to grieve
Though smooth its accents now may be,
Its motive power is treachery,
Its fruits are laden with disease,
Although its tones may often please.
Dissimulation's oily tongue
Will grace Simplicity, among
Her unsuspecting, trustful throng,
That he may do her greater wrong,
And covertly defile the pure,
Some envied purpose to secure.
[The end] ________________________________________________
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Jared Barhite's poem: Lies