Book of lies

I’m reminded of a poem by Rudyard Kipling:

A dead statesman

I could not dig; I dared not rob:
Therefore I lied to please the mob.
Now all my lies are proved untrue
And I must face the men I slew.
What tale shall serve me here among
Mine angry and defrauded young?

Note: the photo has no symbolic relevance; it’s just a colourful burdie eating a peanut. :-)