Lying, a poem

I lie.
A lot.

Some days
I’m a millionaire.
Some days
A struggling artist.

I’ve visited
A hundred countries
Or only three.

Oh, the lies
I’ve told…
About the things
I’ve done
(on every continent)
The gorgeous women
I’ve had.
(can’t count them all)

Lying is exciting.
And harmless
(in my case).

Why lie?
Because
The truth is
Somewhere
In the middle.
And the middle
Is boring.

Except for
An eclair.