No dramatic monologues, eh? All right.
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So flow the ruminations of the bore.
All human things are subject to decay,
Despite which there are jokes and Beaujolais.
All human things are subject to decay,
But there is comfort in a good filet.
There is a garden in her face,
Elsewhere a rather wilder place.
When I was one and twenty,
A large was not a venti.
Behold her, single in the field,
Yon dandelion! Just kidding.
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