What putrefactive ode to exigent lust spills from your lips tonight?
Dare we discover some archaic existence of that fabled malefaction you call Love?
Sweeten not the cup you offer me, for the pit of my being is embittered to the notion.
Did you not realise it is my field from which you reaped the fruit of your brew?
It is my stream which washed the ignorance from your face.
Peddle your Elixir Number 9 elsewhere.
As you can plainly see young serf, I am already here.
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