He Always Fakes A Smile

There used to be a well-clad lad,
Who always faked a smile,
Who scoffed the honest faces dead
And chose a grin most vile,
Vile not to those who didn’t know,
Who thought his warmth was true,
But to the facial critics low,
Who crept in shadowed hue.
These judges of the real contours
Did always carry plenty:
Notebooks, set squares, and of course
Face Reading, Volume Three.
No face escaped their scrutiny,
No twitch went unobserved,
Sniffles, giggles, eyes of glee
And signs of puppy love.
No wonder that the well-clad guy
Who faked his smile (quite good),
Did tremble when he caught an eye
Watch him grin thus lewd –
He dropped the chuckle, gulping, blank
Fearing for his life,
The buttery countenance now sank
As rose some inner strife,
Whether he should take his flight
To where no one could see,
To where no one would then catch sight
Of his mercy plea.

There used to be a well-clad lad,
Who always faked a smile,
But, caught by those who really read
His face, ran quite the mile.

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