The Elephant in the Room

If the nudity of his truth
were not solid and smelly,
its audacity was unclothed,
he told her something silly
about his whereabouts
and a jive of jinxed bouts
that could possibly coerce
an elephant to chirp and deny,
"Don't rope me in this mess, sir,
I've my troubles. My trunk has
been stolen as if the trunk thief
thought that it was too heavy
for me, it's not a relief. It cannot
be too heavy for me. Your truth is.
I'm not your witness. Your truth
or lack of it seems to the elephant."

By the same token, perhaps
his justifications, his accounts
could arm-twist a virtuous dove
into committing crimes of murder,
bed and bird-hopping and trumpeting too.

In all fairness, his various versions
were as frozen as a lifeless stone,
as mouthwatering as a pink puke
after an extravaganza of titanic
beer downing and decimating
which he claimed was nothing
else but the truth of all truths.

His lady was not swept away by
his accounts and promises of love,
she told him to spare her from it all,
she was not fast asleep, she jogged
his memory before calling it a truth
that had lost its virginity and sanity
under a brazen blanket of fairytales.