Bitter, lemon-flavoured and pickled
Are the words of tiring age,
Fuzzily undoing the grease of hard health,
Freezing the size of time, and
Understanding the virtues present.
Yummy words abound, with trespassers,
And damp, hot wetness
That words cannot prevail,
Even above the buttered toasts
Painfully encrusted with peppercorns,
Onions and fed cheese.
They were seeing silk on their attire of attack,
Slippery, loose, boiling were the acts.
The salty air seemed close to the sea
Subjugating the wet stains of land.
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