The Smoking Gun

I found your mask—it slipped last night,
While you were basking in false light.
The truth, it tripped you on your tongue,
And now we hold the smoking gun.

You spun a tale, so full of flair,
Of virtue worn like fresh-cut hair.
You played the part, the saintly one—
But we have found the smoking gun.

Each alibi, a glittered lie,
That wilted under clearer sky.
We traced the steps, we matched the run—
And there it was: the smoking gun.

You gaslit like a seasoned pro,
With crocodile tears set to flow.
But poker face? Oh, you had none—
We caught the twitch. The smoking gun.

You claimed that you were framed, unfair,
By ghosts and gremlins in the air.
But every fib came one by one—
A countdown to the smoking gun.

Your chats leaked. Your past unspooled.
The screenshot choir gently drooled.
Receipts, my friend? We’ve just begun.
We built a case—a smoking gun.

You’d swear you never touched the match,
But you, my dear, designed the scratch.
You lit the fire, then tried to run—
And tripped right on the smoking gun.

So now you stand in full display,
A mannequin of grand decay.
Your truth? A game already won.
By us. By facts. The smoking gun.