George Washington cut down a tree
but held fast to his honesty.
His father smiled and soon forgave,
for truthfulness is often brave.
I have no ax, nor need for wood.
(I’m sorry George, my teeth are good.)
I’ve lost no battles, caused no wars.
I’ve never been to Valley Forge.
I don’t pretend to understand
the inner workings of that man.
He soldiered on, despite defeat,
and held our nation’s greatest seat.
So to him now I turn my gaze,
and hope to live for better days.
I’ve made mistakes, this I admit,
and find myself in deepest shit.
My wife came upstairs, seeking sleep.
My dog was dozing at my feet.
His slobber pooled beneath his jaw,
a well-gnawed bone beside his paw.
Her hazel eyes turned fiery red
to see such filth upon her bed.
A shout, a shove–the dog ran scared.
He left behind his coarse black hair.
She turned to me and asked if I
wished for my pet to up and die?
Her bed is sacred, did I know?
Perhaps I should just pack and go.
Young George, he could not tell a lie.
I swallowed hard, for nor could I.
These are the times that try men’s souls,
when we speak truth or prove assholes.
That dog, I told her, is a creep
for waiting ’til I fell asleep
to jump so lightly I stirred not
and as such he remained uncaught
until just now, when I awoke
but you entered before I spoke.
I would have sent him off, you see,
but you are much faster than me.
She stared at me, then gave a sigh.
A tear rolled slowly from her eye,
a sign that she felt great remorse
for speaking to me with such force.
Like Washington, a man of Truth,
who cast off falsehood in his youth,
I choose to lead a guileless life.
Of course, I’m honest. Ask my wife.