The lonely liar, in search of a lair to lay,
Stumbled into a fancy French place,
Somberly he sat at the bar of burdens,
As he asked the witty waiter for something he'd never had,
Cautiously the character considered,
Then after a monumental moment of thought,
Brought out a blue bottle of *****,
Precisely pouring a pint,
Laying it in the hands of the lustful liar,
"What is this?" He wondered,
"This," the tender told, "Is a liquor called Love."