Humor
Oliver Fibs,
Went from London to Greece,
With a trunk full of cash,
And Rowena his niece,
Where he purchased some land,
By a stream, on a hill,
And built a nice home,
And a flour mill,
And Oliver learned,
To make flour, out of grain,
He would bag it, and tag it,
And sell it for gain,
Yes it seemed he had more,
Than his heart could desire,
And yet Oliver Fibs,
Was a contemptible liar,
A secret known only,
To Oliver's niece,
And a couple of cousins,
Both living in Greece,
Now the summer was hot,
And the air was too dry,
When a man dressed in silk,
Seemed to just happen by,
Tying his horse,
To the box on the sill,
And making his way,
Into Oliver's mill,
"My name is Falafil Kostoulas The Grand,
I'm the richest, most powerful,
Man in the land,
And I need a large sack,
Of your very best flour,
But you must make it quick,
I have less than one hour,"
Well Oliver grinned,
And turned with a jerk,
"Come along," he remarked,
"You can watch while I work,"
And he filled up his hoppers,
And he ground up the wheat,
And poured freshly made flour,
Into a sack by his feet,
Working so fast,
That it made his head reel,
And yet somehow he managed,
To talk a great deal,
"Did you know," he spoke out,
"That I once was a Knight,
And that I killed seventeen dragons,
And that I won every fight?"
"And did I mention?" he said,
And I don't mean to boast,
That my all purpose flour,
Makes award winning toast?"
"And did I tell you," he asked,
While he bounced on one heel,
"That I was the one,
Who invented the wheel?"
And then one final lie,
fell from Oliver's lips,
As he lifted that sack filled with flour,
To his hips,
"Did I mention," he said,
To Falafil The Grand,
"That I've discovered a way,
To make flour out of sand?"
But Falafil Kostoulas,
just paid for that flour,
He was in a great rush,
He had less than one hour,
So he Mounted his horse,
They exchanged their good byes,
And Falafil rode off,
Still believing those lies,
And the Summer came fast,
but with out any rain,
And the ground became parched,
And it killed all the grain,
And the people of Greece,
Soon had nothing to eat,
Because a terrible drought,
Had destroyed all the wheat,
And a month came and went,
As so often they will,
When Falafil Kostoulas,
Returned to that mill,
But this time he came,
With the local police,
And they quickly arrested,
Poor Oliver's niece,
And Falafil Kostoulas,
Determined to speak,
Pointed his finger,
And he shouted in Greek,
"Our people are starving,
All over the land,
And your uncle has claimed,
To make flour out of sand,
And that, Miss Rowena,
Is what he must do,
And until it's been done,
I'm imprisoning you!"
And as they took her away,
Poor Rowena just cried,
Because she knew for a fact,
That her uncle had lied,
And she knew he could never,
Make flour out of sand,
No, the tearful Rowena,
Did not understand,
And Oliver Fibs,
Felt guilty inside,
Rowena was gone,
All because he had lied,
Oh how could he save her?
Oh what could be done?
And he sat, and he thought,
In the blistering sun,
Until finally he flinched,
And he flew to his feet,
"I'm a grinder." he said,
" A great grinder of wheat!"
"And perhaps," he remarked,
"By the skill of my hand,
I could learn to make flour,
Out of nothing but sand,"
So Oliver Fibs,
Hurried off to the shore,
Where he gathered some sand,
Half a ton, maybe more,
And he carried it back,
To the floor of the mill,
And he started to grind it,
Just using his skill,
And the sand trickled in,
And the wheels started turning,
Around, and around,
Until the belts started burning,
They were whining, and screeching,
And they started to smoke,
And then every thing stopped,
His machinery was broke,
Well Oliver groaned,
And he started to shout,
And he kicked, and he screamed,
And he darted about,
And he cried, and he cried,
And he cried, and he cried,
Oh why, oh why, oh why,
Had he lied?
And he finally fell,
Much too weary to stand,
With his feet in the air,
And his head in the sand,
Moaning and sobbing,
And hitting the ground,
And making a very,
Undignified sound,
Then the sand at his side,
Quickly started to switch,
And from under that sand,
Squirmed a raggedy witch,
Raising her voice,
In an agonized pitch,
And scatching her head,
Cause the sand made it itch,
"Just what is the problem?"
She said with a roar,
"And where is the water?"
"And where is the shore?"
"And why have you stolen,
My house in the sand?"
"Explain!" she demanded,
While scatching her hand,
But Oliver Fibs,
Couldn't hear that old witch,
Ranting and raving,
In such a high pitch,
Because Oliver Fibs,
Had his head in the sand,
Sickened with guilt,
And too weary to stand,
And this made the Sand witch,
Go into a tizzy,
Her face became red,
And she got very dizzy,
Pulling at Oliver's neck,
With her hand,
And yanking his head,
Up from under the sand,
And Oliver stood there,
With sand in his clothes,
In his hair, In his lashs,
And stuffed up his nose,
And he explained to the witch,
Why he'd taken that sand,
And how he got into trouble,
Because he'd lied to a man,
And that because of that lie,
They arrested his niece,
And locked her away,
In some prison in Greece,
And that Falafil Kostoulas,
The rich and the grand,
Had given him orders,
To make flour out of sand,
Well that sand witch, now laughing,
Pinched Oliver's cheek,
"It's funny," she said,
"You don't look like you're Greek,"
Then she cackled, and she wiggled,
And she pulled at his hand,
"I'll be happy to help you,
Make flour out of sand,"
"But in return," said that witch,
"You must give me this land,
My skin gets too itchy,
Living down in the sand,"
Well Oliver moved,
With remarkable speed,
And he kissed that old witch,
And he firmly agreed,
So the witch started twirling,
And chanting, and twitching,
Using one hand for magic,
And the other for itching,
And with the flick of her wand,
And the slight of her hand,
She made mountains of flour,
Out of nothing but sand,
And Oliver's beautiful niece,
Was returned,
He was glad she was back,
And his lesson was learned,
He had lost his nice house,
On that glorious hill,
With an acre of land,
And a flour mill,
But he was the happiest,
Unemployed fellow in Greece,
Because Oliver Fibs,
Had his wonderful niece,
And for the rest of his days,
He did not tell a lie,
And the rain finally fell,
And soon nothing was dry,
And the fields began growing,
And flowing with wheat,
And the people of Greece,
Soon had plenty to eat,
And as for that sand witch,
Well, what can I say,
Her skin doesn't itch,
And she likes it that way.
And perhaps I should take,
Just a moment to mention,
That the Sand Witch invented,
Some tastey perfection,
Placing lovely Greek meats,
between bread that was sliced,
Adding lettuce and tomatoes,
And a sauce that was spiced,
And she sold it to people,
And got very wealthy,
I don't know what she called it,
But I've heard that it's healthy,
Now there's a lesson to learn,
From this tale of deceit,
Whether you live on a hill,
Or at the end of a street,
Lying is wrong,
And God says it's a sin,
Not to mention the trouble,
You'll get yourself in,
Just like Oliver Fibs,
A most likable guy,
Who hurt his own niece,
For the sake of a lie,
So learn from this tale,
And a millers sad plight,
Don't lie about dragons,
Or winning the fight,
And don't lie about flour,
In the midst of a drought,
There will not be a witch there,
To pull you back out,
Because lies are for sinners,
And witches aren't real,
So remember to be honest,
In all you do, say, and feel!
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Even so, it's a very good story.