Truth.

If you could have smelled his breath,
Felt the beer coming off of him,
You would've done the same thing.
And tried to quiet him when he told you "the truth."

"The truth," he says, and I say, "my wife's pregnant,"
"Well, that's good," he says, and I say, "no, I can't talk to you right now. I broke my arm."
"Well, that's too bad, but the truth," he says, and I say, "I was in a driving accident,"
"Oh, that's bad! But the truth," he says, and I say, "I have a chronic speaking disorder, making me unable to speak rationally to you for more than two seconds."
"My poor man! but the truth," he says, and I say, "I'm deaf."
"How horrible! But the truth," he says, and I say, "Old man, don't tell me the truth is. I know all the truths, I know every single one. And there's no way in your inebriated state you could tell me the 'truth', and there is no way that you could possibly be anymore truthful than me. So sir, I ask you to leave me to tend to my many cats, and drink my 1775 sherry."
"Sir, I seem to think that you're not telling the truth. And in fact, I am not drunk. Indeed I can smell the liquor off of your breath, and feel your loss. I've watched you for days now, trying to approach you with the truth about your deceased wife, but each time, you feed me new lines that are incredibly obscene and belligerent. But this time, I think you should know the truth. Your wife wasn't killed in that house fire, she died trying to protect your daughter from a burglar. She died with a knife in her hand, wounding the assailant and allowing your daughter to flee." He says. And I say, "My wife died.... in a house fire..."