OUR LIARS HERE IN MAINE
There was Sinon, he of Troy, and Ulysses, too,
and Cain,
Who preceded many centuries the liars here in
Maine.
There was Gulliver, Munchausen, there was
Ananias, too,
A very handsome job of it those gentlemen
could do.
Yet look at Ananias! Why, his story knocked
him dead,
But here in Maine the liar “does” the other
man instead.
And Sinon, he of Troy, had to plan and build
his lie,
But here in Maine the liar doesn’t even have
to try.
For the pure prevarication comes cascading
down his lip
And he never seems to falter or to stub his toe
and trip.
And he walks abroad with honor, and no mortal
will arraign
The pure and worthy motives of the liar here
in Maine.
His strongest hold is fishing, and he fixes with
his eye
The victim who must listen and who never
dares deny.
Each river and pellucid pond, each brooklet and
each stream,
Possesses fifty liars to preserve it in esteem.
And he that owns a yaller dog, and he that
owns a hoss
Will never see their laurels dimmed, if words
can add a gloss.
’Tis true the old inhabitant, narrating ancient
tales,
Occasionally soars to heights where homely
language fails.
So then, alas, he’s hampered some, but note
his kindling eye,
And as he gets his second wind, observe how
he can lie!
’Tis no invidious charge I bring against this
worthy crew,
We love the lies they tell to us and love the
liars too.
They hold to truth in business deals, they’d
never lie to cheat;
But when the “sport” comes down from town,
by gracious he’s their meat.
They “torch” him up with narrative until his
fancy steams
And swogons, yaps, and witherlicks go ramp-
ing through his dreams.
For when our solemn ruminants describe the
olden times
They stimulate a state of mind I can’t describe
in rhymes.
I pen this humble lyric and I bring a wreath of
bay,
For the good prevaricators doing business down
this way.
May their tongues be ever limber, and im-
agination free,
With no interloping infidel to ask how such
can be.
May the plug from which they nibble spice a
piquant, pungent tale,
May words to paint the details of their fiction
never fail.
Let the chips from which they whittle always
have an even grain,
And we’ll challenge all creation with our liars
here in Maine.