The regime of the Golden Tongue
We build our empire from whispers and lies.
For every speech is a well-laid plot.
A clever story cast upon the audience.
If no one contests a claim,
we spread our wings and soar.
No moral code can dictate how high we fly;
The compass spins, unburdened by a north,
The mob is our violin; our lies, the bow.
Everything is possible. And nothing is true.
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