I make up a lot.
My lies are piping hot.
They’re liked for what they’re not.
But in the end they’re just a dot.
A spark, a speck, a spot.
Just a minor thought.
Past what I don’t know.
Where the last Don’t Tellums grow.
There’s a blasting siren glow.
A vast not yet and long ago.
At the end of status quo.
There are somewheres more to go.