If I were paid a mighty wage,
 to write about a scandalous sage,
 I'd write it good, I'd write it fine,
 he'd be a hero, with every line. 

Words would flow, false and true,
words of old and words anew.
Words are words and who cares less,
 about this sage and all his mess.

Rich in riches, power and greed,
they'd be mine, all to weed.
Time would pass, damage should sever,
although my words, remain for ever.

But then again with some thought,
what am I, if I'm so bought.
Lies are lies, for all they mean,
however it's soiled to change the scene.

Words are words, and matter they do,
whatever's composed, should be true.
I can't and will not write this text,
I'd rather be broke, then be vexed.

Author Unknown