Interlude to whisper time
Solitude of iced chatter
The strips of glazed phlegm
On mama's burnt soufflé
Ornaments, upon kitchen's copper, this
Cord ends where unrivalled breaths from
You and I and we dine
Because singing was so three days ago
Forks and Dos and spoons and Res
Sprinkled from papa's cheroots
That smoked my brains
And smocked my yet conceived daughters
In the tiara of angry mob, that throng
As the television dies;
So we all sit and our prayers stuff our noses
And our stomachs sing sans soufflé,
Burnt or not or out
"We thank you for our health, and we thank you for today."
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