I am he made from a tree of Ebony
and expoxied together.
I have such fun with fibs that I’ve spun; you roll your eyes—
I’m lying.

Sticking out, my snore stake; braying forth another one.
Tort oration me blurt; “Dupe tricks, bunk spiel!” you say,
“damn you’ve been a not-truth boy; snot place on face grows long!”
I’ve a renege plan, I have a peg span,
I am the woodman.
Truth, truth? No truth.

It’s Jiminy sticking with me and giving me “Nix!” for shtikking faux.
“Please hear my cry: be truthy, little guy, or you’ll be stunned.
Stop lying. . . !”

Fellow natters. Shut up! Giving me the dread-talk eye—
crabber talks like bitch wife. Snore organ nix regress.
Oy! I’ve been a knotty churl—I’ve let the Cricket down.
I’ve a renege plan, jive’s what I spread, man,
I am the woodman.
Truth, in truth, skewed.

Fibbing like a politician on a office run.
Am I bum or scum
like Congressmen, mendacity their relished aim?
I’ve a renege scam, jive’s what I spread, man,
I am the woodman.
Truth skewed, [pro]tube[erance] grew.

Ethics, schmethics! “No sir, faux sir!
Nose you pick, it grows, sir, past your moue.
Practice is vile. It will stretch a mile, long but not wide.
Fie! Lying!!

“Semantics are twisted!”
Guy gives such a spiteful glower.
Ethics sentry kvetchin’. Stinkin’ harpy cricket.
Man, ’twould be a treat to kick ’im, pesky, naggin’ schmoe!

My nose a peg, man. My nose a peg grand!
I am the woodman.”
[to Jiminy]:
“Screw you, screw you. . . !”

Getting long, the mug’s strut; very long the strut juts; stretching prong, the mug’s strut; fetching? not! the mug’s strut; drenched with snot, the mug’s strut; mensch he’s not, the schmuck putz!

[Fade on “A Winter’s Tale,” Act IV, Scene III]

AUTOLYCUS: A lie; you are rough and hairy. Let me have no
lying: it becomes none but tradesmen, and they
often give us soldiers the lie: but we pay them for
it with stamped coin, not stabbing steel; therefore
they do not give us the lie.

[and “Measure for Measure,” Act I, Scene III]

DUKE VINCENTIO: Now, as fond fathers,
Having bound up the threatening twigs of birch,
Only to stick it in their children's sight
For terror, not to use, in time the rod
Becomes more mock'd than fear'd; so our decrees,
Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead;
And liberty plucks justice by the nose