An unfaithful mirror, clearer

Than a truthful tounge, flung

Across pen, paper

And stitched by stapler

To create notes, for folk

Who feel the need to see to know

To witness to grow

As if the puddle was the worth

To the knowledge unearthed in hurt

And love

The puddle doesn’t rise above

It just tells you what you hear

So listen to the rain

Don’t ask the puddle for your sir.