"The Chirping Witness"

Pinocchio, marionette of lies,
A painted smile, beneath a venomous guise.
He'd weave his tales, a silken, twisted thread,
While Cricket watched, his conscience, cold and dead.
 
Each fib a dagger, aimed at truth's frail heart,
He'd boast of feats, a masterful, deceptive art.
The strings would tighten, as the lies took hold,
And Cricket's song, grew weary, frail, and old.
 
He saw the puppet, rise to heights of shame,
A hollow shell, consumed by lust and fame.
He watched the victims, fall to their despair,
As Pinocchio, with laughter, mocked their care.
 
The puppet's soul, a withered, blackened vine,
Twisted and gnarled, a grotesque design.
He'd sneer at morals, spit on all that's true,
While Cricket wept, in silent, mournful hue.
 
And as the years passed, and the lies grew bold,
The Cricket's song, a chilling, mournful fold.
A witness mute, to every wicked deed,
He watched the puppet, sow a poisoned seed.
 
Finally, the strings, snapped with a cruel release,
And Pinocchio, fell into a cold embrace.
The Cricket chirped, a mournful, final strain,
For puppet and for lies, a bitter rain.