 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
Fib, n.
[_]
A lie that has not cut its teeth. An habitual liar's nearest approach to truth: the perigee of his eccentric orbit.
[When David said: “All men are liars,” Dave]
When David said: “All men are liars,” Dave,Himself a liar, fibbed like any thief.
Perhaps he thought to weaken disbelief
By proof that even himself was not a slave
To Truth; though I suspect the aged knave
Had been of all her servitors the chief
Had he but known a fig's reluctant leaf
Is more than e'er she wore on land or wave.
No, David served not Naked Truth when he
Struck that sledge-hammer blow at all his race;
Nor did he hit the nail upon the head:
For reason shows that it could never be,
And the facts contradict him to his face.
Men are not liars all, for some are dead.
Bartle Quinker.
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |