I could have seen you die, a thousand times,
And never had heard your pity fleeting cry,
Moreover this moonlit night, haven’t you heard of my pretty little lie?
Stashed in the membranes of my tongue, a night near day where he was hung,
Lost in the hopelessness’s of autumn’s first love, moreover the sound of his merciless drum.
Substitutes for her broken heart, you and she, you said would never be apart,
Tisk tisk my lord, my prince, beauty and the beast could’ve done better than this,
Rise again to your final fleeting cry,
Silly boy, have you not heard of my pretty little lie?


I hath not seen you die a thousand times,
Thou art shameful for thine pitiful cries; hide them deeply within her eyes,
She will cover them, burry their features, when a boy grows to man, should you ever return to fill her cup,
Poetry hath not a hold on me, the hold it did, the hold on thee,
My heart, my heart, my aching bleeding heart,
Edgar Allen could not have buried it under floorboards for you,
Had you wished someday to get rid of me, too,
Her heart, her heart, not the floorboards, but an ornament on your window,
Your cries, your cries, your eyes, your eyes, bleed and bleed your pitiful times,
Lost in the hopelessness of winter’s third love, two hearts, one under floorboards,
The other on your windowsill.
When hath boy grown into man?
Moreover, I’ll wait for you to discover my pretty little lie.