Between the lines

Picture a creature so honest so kind
that one struggles to find any fault
in its word and deeds.
A reliable fellow,
many would trust
without a moment's hesitation.

But look a little closer,
at the edge of its lips (right side)
and you'll see, a lil' twitch
as it gives Timmy a coin, saying
'so go buy yourself a drink.'

Chip off the paint job,
peck at the shell,
heck drill to its core and
one will then find
not rainbows and sunshine,

but a dim-lit library of
lies and deceit,
loan-outs of
dishonesty in a
single receipt.

So you flip the pages,
thinking the words make sense.
It's really all truth
and no pretense.
But you realise the author
wasn't writing to you.

It was just writing
about what it thought
should be.
A lifetime of insincerity.

Edited on 120109. This was supposed to be a short story.