On Beating A Dead Horse Of A Different Color

   I lied

Through the skin of my teeth

With my tongue in my cheek

While my feet were asleep

And my nose ran.



Indeed,

Amidst getting my goat,

Out to lunch in his shoes,

I did stand off the wall

On my cold feet.



And if these are not clear as a prism,

You know why the French call this "idiotisme."