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Underneath a Upas tree,
A great pretender sat,
A fugleman he was to me,
Who wore a juggler's hat.
A Cornish hug, his practiced art,
His pettifogging skill,
Suggested that the man was smart,
Or maybe just a dill.
He gathered his mendacious tools,
Inside the woods of sham,
Wherein the saplings stood like fools,
To shape his peck-sniff plan.
But all the saplings one by one,
Three legged pigeons all,
Discovered that their case had gone,
When they saw this Judas fall.
'Twas humbug dressed in make believe,
And bathed in falser truth,
That thought an honest man naive,
Until his forced reproof.
In the end no matter what,
All vanity had failed,
Their corpulence denied the pot,
Their foolishness impaled.
He who sought to rise to fame,
Upon their willing backs,
Turns upon his hosts to claim,
An incubus in that.
So round and round the rumour goes,
Like a frog from stone to stone,
Kept alive to challenge those,
Who dare to stand alone.
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