Then we saw it.
Large, befanged.
And I set the table.
Nowhere near ready.
Worried though I am.
Pouring the soup.
Was that a fit I was in?
Miserable little fellow.
At least she was french.
Before me the gulf.
Filling slowly.
Better now then.
And filling my baggage.
Here was it poking.
The bread, unsliced.
And whose the dignity?
My, my, my.
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