An aspirant magician winks,
rethinking, waxes serious,
whispering some absurd words,
then flourishes a phony wand
about the brim, inverted, black,
and, as practiced, reaches in:

a living rabbit would emerge,
purging doubts of magic done,
were things run as planned today,
but the rabbit disappeared
- or perhaps was never set;
regardless, now, this trick's a bust.

Excuses, explanations lost,
this superficial sorcerer
casts blame on weary audience
for not suspending disbelief,
there conjuring, at last, a truth
through disillusion's sleight of hand:

such wizardry, to be believed,
relies on lies - how well one's deceived.