I was once informed, by an ancient nun,

Pious and proper, with no sense of fun.

That the angels in heaven, heard my every word,

And noted each lie, however absurd,

In a marvelous book, wondrously neat,

Indexed and referenced, my web of deceit.

And why would she lie?

This information, stayed fresh in my head,

For the very next day the nun was found dead,

My childhood  conceit, which I then held as true,

She‘d lived long enough, just to get the word through.

I strived and I stuggled to avoid the profane,

But a surfeit of truth can drive you insane!

But how could I lie?

Years later in London I beheld the great book

No work of the angels, I was prompted to look.

The lies of the ages, all wondrously neat,

indexed and referenced, our web of deceit.

It‘s housed in a palace, built on a lie,

If the contents were true, the pigs would fly.

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