I got a pocketful of pennies and a mind full of lies,
ever-mindful that neither form of currency will avail -
I see there lying just beneath the surface a sort of beast
I've never yet slain, yet I fear the chase:
always the hunter, KI've lost my spear,
left it lying next to my shame,
and I assume flight -
Scattering pennies in my wake in desperate distraction,
they fail to attract it's attention, the copper approximations
slipping, falling, revolving about fruitlessly,
yet there, caught in the reflection lies still the beast,
snarling and ravin - but stationary.
Turning, ready to die with a thousand unruths,
I face the beast -
I face the befanged and hideously-mouthed monster, finding -
the lie projected before me and,
finding the thing now in flight, panicked at it's discovery,
the adrenaline engages, sending it and I into a fury
as the last of the discs cease revolving.
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