We were so close just now,
I trusted you to hold my Boston Cream,
The most sacred allowed,
Even when the cream itself oozed out slow,
I did not fret or sweat,
I'd lick it off your rough, yet soggy, skin,
Though I know nothing 'bout you 'fore we met,
P'haps after I throw you into the bin,
And you are carried off,
To join the billions of others like you,
All fallen from great lofts,
You'll live again,
Recycled, napkin again,
Would I know you if we should meet again,
As I dab you against my mouth's moist skin?
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