The legends hide from searching eyes The reporter has never seen them; To him it must be great surprise For such as he who lives by pen His writing is all workaday He has never seen the way That things do always go, and when Could a legend have its say? The dodo-bird, we all assume Must have lived, but writers all Did the evidence consume And conclude it all must fall; Aye, if not for foolish bones Its long travails, its muted groans Would we "but a myth" it call And cast it out among the stones; We assume we're getting better At discerning false from true But although the paper's wetter The incorrect's as old as new; Such myths we'll be, just you and I For worse befalleth those who die When our voices from us flew Our life would soon become a lie.