You come out the wood same as you went in,
one hand on a bottle of your customary gin.
How true, sincerity was never your flaw.
In conversation you are now, as ever before,
with nimble tongue and convincing eyes,
a Shakespeare reader, a mere sonnet stealer,
an artful seamstress over-coating your lies
with a layer of sweetness, just enough for her
not to realize the hollowness within you,
and give you chance again, chance #10,
to flourish a knight, for the one night you do,
and in the morning be the poser you are again.
But here now comes the day for original verse,
and on this day your silence could be worse.