I’ve tarted for dolts that parted with dough for buying
my chicanery—lots of dough they paid me. Mucho.
I started to lie when they’d parted with dough/cash/bling.
My mendacity’s mean; dough motivated me.

I cooked up big lies; bundles of cash were my big prize.
It’s swell, all of the bread from them I bled—swell life I sure led.
My lies were much decried by those saw through my bullshit.
They’d easily seen: It was all a smokescreen.

I cooked up big lies, pulling the wool over folks’ eyes
I filled them up with dread, messed with their heads; I did it for bread.
But more eyes opened wide—more people saw through the bullshit.
They were feeling mean when they learned: a smokescreen.
And so, I quickly split the scene.