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A thousand tiny silver swords thrust into my stomach.
A million tiny pairs of hands ripping apart my flesh.
They twist and turn and kick and squirm until nothing is left.
They fight their way until they find another living guest.
And then they strike again into another person's skin.
Squeezing and proding their host until they find a way in.
You fight these unwelcomed guests until none of them are left.
The stomach ache subsides until the germs come up again.
And when they do the little guys will flash their silver swords.
Shouting and crying their battle screams, coming back for more.
Be prepared for the sharp edges of the men's silver sticks.
For when they strike you know that you will soon be getting sick.