To eat the soft green mould,
That grows between the bread,
To drink the tasteless wine,
Brewed from grapes long dead,
To taste the sour oils,
That leak from rotted flesh,
That once was a fresh meal,
Is now Louises mess.
She kept it for many years,
Awaiting my arrival,
To dine on the exquisite taste,
Of her lucious survival,
Along those many years,
It's time she does test,
Only she doesn't know,
Not showing is what I do best.
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