He refurbished each retelling with new locales and personnel,
Variants and permutations to keep it fresh and new.
He turned the truth and the truth chicaned.
Those tall tales soared into the ozone
And came up gasping for air. When he told a whopper,
Great Moby rolled three times in Davy Jones' locker.
He needed a Croy to map whom he told what to
When and why, who they knew he knew and how,
Who had been where, and with whom when
Or why about whom, where and which,
When they knew what and how.
He peddled wholesale lies
When retail truths would sell undiscounted,
Adding loops and conditions
To those overloaded circuits humming
With crazed electrons. Soon enough,
Like a tree in the woods
When no one hears it fall,
A lie is just a mighty wind blowing
With no one to hear it at all.
---o0o---
Copyright (c) 2005 by Jack Brummet
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