The Oak Is Wilting

I love with my eyes,
And lies simply role
Off my wooden tongue.
They notice, of course they notice.
I never was a very good liar,
Even as a child,
But they do not care:
They love with their eyes too,
And I am as handsome as they are not.
I am more beautiful than all women and men on Earth,
Though I was sculpted by man's hand.

Now I am rotten to the core,
Despite the healthy appearance
Of my extremities
And my ever growing nose.
Yet still, they choose me, time and time again,
And they don't care so long as
I give them their money's worth.
Neither hands nor lips of flesh
Can touch this stone heart
Of wood.

They need no strings to make me dance,
Money will work just fine.