The Tale of the Hero was Rotten Inside

Camaraderie formed from plastic smiles, silicon tongues exchanged,
Cold mannequin hands offering salvation – all in all, it was rotten inside.
My neighbour’s girl was a straight-lace, baked pastries from roses,
They called her elegant, but I tasted her cake – those vermillion petals were rotten inside.
The noble knight pledged his loyalty, was graced with a blade,
The red queen smiles, the quintessence of grace – that bloody sword was rotten inside.
The scholar drops the knee to the fool, cloak torn in ragged scraps,
His books scattered into the wind like dust – that country’s system was rotten inside.
The goddess’s caress was fine indeed, red apple blossom cheeks,
Her hands so smooth, so cold – platinum, could it be? Her stained-glass image was rotten inside.
I fought the dragon – slayed him, even! Raided his cave, acquired the boon!
Drowned in his son’s despairing tears! I laugh – my murderer’s hands feel rotten inside.
My village so quaint – how lovely, it’s home! They laugh and they cheer with a puppet’s vigour,
Conservative folks with no room in their blank, empty heads – it’s no wonder their hearts are so rotten inside.
Then, who is the hero? Who the villain? Who is the fake, and who is the answer, the child asks me,
I smile (snarl rather), with a kind gentle voice and a hand ruffling the hair – for even this answer is rotten inside.