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The wafting melbatoast
Itches my beak.
The zippy fruit,
The greasy meat.
Britches slide up my stilts.

My tummy's jactation,
A yearn to nibble.
The provocation,
Indeed, does tickle
The appetite I've built.

On a jentacular table,
The banquet sat.
My bitter foible.
The nosegay, a hat,
The cloth is a kilt.

No, don't go away!
The caterwaul inside
Beseeches you nay.
Don't let my food hide
And my fantasy wilt!

I open my lids
And look around.
My foods and liquids
Cannot be found.
My skull begins to tilt.

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