At first, Cathy McAle would seem a likeable child,
Her parents were honest, and her white smile beguiled.
But lurking behind Cathy’s kind and sweet guise,
Lay the mind of a girl who pathologically lies.
Broken objects and vanished sweets
Were only the start of her mischievous feats
And expertly hiding her impish glee
She’d firmly object: ‘It wasn’t me.’
But she quickly moved on from normal childish behaviour,
Telling tales to animals and even to strangers.
She gave shortcuts to hedgehogs who didn’t know
That soon they’d be flattened like tyre-tracked dough.
And when paramedics had gone astray
She sent their sirens the exact wrong way.
But in Winter, Cathy reached her very worst
Her morals in a black, metaphorical hearse.
White with thick snow and frost most hoary
Her town had become the news’ top story
And passing a reporter frozen and static
Cathy chose to do something dramatic.
She yanked away the reporter’s microphone
And with the face of a piteous peasant
Screamed on live T.V. in a burst of tears:
‘I didn’t get a single Christmas present!’
The world filled with pity,
And flooded Cathy McAle with gifts and treats;
But then her parents exposed her presents,
And their respective receipts.
From then on, nobody talked to Cathy; she received no post,
She existed like a lonely, invisible ghost.
Sat amongst her now worthless gifts, Cathy McAle softly cried,
And to the only person who would still listen, she lied:
‘It’s not my fault… I don’t miss anyone…
‘It’s not my fault… I don’t miss anyone…’
So whenever someone lies or begins to tell a tale,
They would do well to remember the story of Cathy McAle.