Truth, That Blunderer

I left too late to get there earlier,
As we had planned, and so I wasn’t able
To work out what was underneath the table.
She claimed it was a collie, but its fur
Was like a bear cub’s, so I offered her
A chance to change her story. “It’s a sable,”
She lied, so it was just another fable
Designed to stifle truth, that blunderer.

I left too late because I told the truth
When neighbours asked if I could spare a minute
To look over and repair a broken spinet.
One minute? Forty-five. Was it uncouth
To leave it after they’d broken my tooth?
I can’t fix anything with music in it.