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The French for “nonfiction” is non-fiction.

Oh, you may argue, Ça n'existe pas ! There’s no such thing.

And I’d agree—witness these very verses' phoney ring!

We’re all so hopelessly hooked on lies

we'll die romancing. Surprise, surprise!

Or so many a wisesacre realist might suppose.

But true nonfiction does exist. A rose is a rose is a rose.

Poetry is a way to find what you really think.

You thought you knew? That's just where you go wrong!

The only way us idiots can discover this is through song.

Shakespeare and Ovid sang until they fell silent,

having no more mere words to think

or say.

I'm sure they wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

Neither would I—assuming, that is, I ever get there

(which, judging by these clunky lines, there's little need to fear).

Such silence must be the sweetest shroud to wear.


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