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A bland soup,

Two bloated bubbles on the surface,

Eyes, no, life rings,

For what, the mould's not arrived, yet,

A third rises and, pop,

A spurt of Kaitaia Fire's murdered the first,

But no sauce of inspiration could save this,

Soup - uninspiring!

Croissant or a hot cross bun - tomorrow morning

I stir once, clockwise, thrice, anticlockwise, pop,

A uniform range, haunted by mushed corn lakes, forms,

It degrades slowly, like all famous peaks,

I wonder, will the chickpeas,

Birthed from a spoon's butchery,

Believe in their parent's tale of yester?

Well, at least, they will always have the great broccoli tree,

A forever-floater, no matter the metallic utensil I threaten with.

I dip in my spoon,

A knight's sword, this tree will be no more,

"On this night of dissatisfaction," I claim,

"There will be an expiration," and I draw,

And I hac—


Pop, the soup's last bulging eye disappears,

That is two expired, we need only wait a minute more for my sight.

Tomorrow, I promise dear page,

I will entreat you with a croissant's flaky crust,

Fondant over the cocky breath of coffee.

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