well—th

Give me your rich
Keep the poor

Oh how I love them
So perfect
So pure

Wrapped in the softest plucked cotton
Babes of destiny they are so sweet

Boiled in a four quart pot

Brought to a simmer

Dashes of salt and pepper
Not to disrupt the natural juices

Take out
Braise
Butter and serve

Don’t know what I’m saying anymore
I’m merely a serf

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3 thoughts on “well—th

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