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Oddness Of Things
Stephen Watson |
How strange the silent pint of milk
Which favours shivering in solitary;
Enjoying its own, rather limited
Company; to taking afternoon tea
With one such as me.
How odd the sacrificial slice of bread,
Which prefers to martyr itself like
Joan of Arc; in my tender hands.
Than partake of my hospitality.
How bizarre the salmon upon my plate;
Which stares at me so greedily;
Yet with not a single sound of gratitude
Does it thank me;
For what it is about to receive.
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