I hate the truth, it's true.

Good God, I hate the truth, it’s true.
And beauty’s over-rated too
And lies and ugliness are grim
beyond belief.

The world has surely had enough
of them, and Christ this life is tough
without their dose of added sin.
So why add more?

Why take a judge’s wig and wear
it over string and sawdust hair?
Why take a moon or battered sun
and make it true

or beautiful? Why make them say
that ugliness alone conveys
the seed of absence from the truth
you marvel at?

When sitting in Buchanan Street
on cold Italian marble seats
Look! truth in each fourth face I see
And beauty too.

And when sitting there: papers fly,
rubbish gathers, the seagulls cry
that ugliness is pointlessness,
that lies are numb.

I can live without the lot of them:
each knotless knot and flawless gem.
Instead give me the skewed, the broken
unforeseen.




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