Twas a day and half long before a minnie little man made his way into a small tavern. He had his potion in hand, turned it now and again, as if to prepare his thoughts. “Come round and sit and I shall show one, and then another a new fangled cure.” The locals sitting in their corners stopped in mid sentence to make room as minnie little man pulled a chair to the floor. He looked so sure of himself they thought, he must not be a bluff. So sat he did and began to spin his tale of fluff. At first the crowd “poohawed and puffed” in astonishment as he weaved one tall tale into next. But he with gaze black and eyes of steel kept his words a flow. He talked so much that the words sounded right, perhaps it was their own selves after all. He talked in a tone that lured the soul and a sleep but awake they did go. Such nonsense he spoke, but in time it rang true and for all that a day could not bring. This minnie of man this stranger of who? Made talk as if talk was all new. As the crowd lulled to silence and asleep they did wake, he pulled out his potion and told them to take. So down every hatch and quiet they paid to the minnie of man a token a day. He kept on his tales and they “poohawed” not a more, for the minnie of man had taken the floor. What happened that day and the day after that was a sad little cure from Mendacity’s hat. For in time a tall tale can weave into true if long enough one takes from it’s brew.