Truth’s a spoiled child, used to his way,
Who becomes hurtful when he’s ignored.
Blunt in his insistence upon last say,
Precocious, acting of his own accord,
Not easily given to strict control
Though constantly approached through discipline,
He is a difficult and playful soul
And heeds neither Elation nor Chagrin.
Since keeping company with cold, hard Fact --
Rough companion and incorrigible --
He has lost his concern for social Tact;
He and Logic, once friends, only quibble.
Truth takes the end to ev’ry argument,
For he’s a loud, arrogant innocent.


 
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