Since the ancient days of Stone Age
Beside the river, flourished a village.
Many lived and died within that sphere,
Several forgotten, while some were held dear
In this village, with its days long and balmy
Lived a man who went by the name Swamy
Devoid of duties, he wandered without a thought
“Spare me your time”, to the villagers he besought
Those who saw through, avoided him like a plague
The gullible obliged, though his intentions were vague
Perched on a rock, to those who listened he told his tales
Two truths and a lie, blended well like fine cocktail
Drunk on his tales, the crowd pondered to reward him how
It was then decided, to gift him a healthy cow
Swamy was pleased, the cow gave him plentiful milk
He served hot tea, to the listeners and for all of that ilk
His tales now turned fiery, and his crowd began to grow
He shouted and screamed - "the village needed to know"
The tales hit them hard, and the people did shudder
Hot tea kept brewing, milk flowing from tired udders
One morning while milking, he noticed a few drops of blood
Swamy kept going, the red discarded into the mud
Drained of its life, the poor cow gave up and chose to die
“It’s they who did it”, the man had no plans to stop his lies
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