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Poem by Countee Cullen
Tell me all things false are true, Bitter sweet, that fools are wise; I will not doubt nor question you; I am in a mood for lies. Tell me all things ill turn good; Thew and sinew will be stronger Thriving on the deadly food Life proffers for their hunger. Paint love lovely, if you will; Be crafty, sly, deceptive; Here is fertile land to till, Sun-seeking, rain-receptive. Hold my hand and lie to me; I will not ask you How nor Why; I see death drawing nigh to me Out of the corner of my eye.
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