A spaghetti like that Scriabin song
fate oodles it's way along
solitary chords placed à plate
with a single note scored
Called in to curly fries
potato wedges laced in Tabasco
sauces slathered like the letters
left in stanzas of betters
Mountains of mayhemic pasta
what it would finally cost
compiled politics diet of worms
such that no menu was lost
Supper was served at seven
when rockets flared overheated
each role is made with the leven
from chefs that cook for the dead.
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