In smoky halls where echoes groan,
They carved the truths in tempered stone,
Yet none recall the scribe who wrote,
A chap in boots and mismatched coat.
His quill was plucked from harpy's wing,
He’d hum while making corpses sing,
And in his book, no saints nor rules,
Just jesters crowned as sacred fools.
He’d scrawl: “The Pharaohs danced in socks,”
“Atlantis sank for...
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