The Con-Man never wrote in prose,
instead he took his thoughts
and twisted them around themselves
while rhyme and beat he sought.
Manipulation was his work
of wisdom, thought and word
Sometimes his work was beautiful,
sometimes it was absurd.
He turned the words around his finger
til they fell in place;
his rhyme was tilled, his work fulfilled;
a smile lit his face.
the work was done, the con was spun
his masterpiece alight
with the joy it was to bring
and so the Con-Man said "Good night."
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