Stranger Than Fiction

His favourite author’s Voltaire He's got a pretentious flair A little poodle called Cher And an Art Noveau chair A crusader for justice He has his own moral compass He and I know why: Magnetic north is between his thighs You couldn’t make this up Everything cloak and dagger for a while Smokes his roll-ups with cunning and guile Women swoon cos he comes across as blasé He’s got a winning smile A minute later he starts on his spiel Selling his dream with an insomniac's zeal And in its own way it has its appeal Play along though you know it’s not real He’s the king of misdirection Doesn’t care for circumspection Disingenuous disaffection He’s in love with his reflection Falling for his own deception Built upon a misconception That he is his own depiction of a life stranger than fiction You couldn’t make this up Stranger than fiction