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Whose shoes these are I think I know. Their feet have not returned yet, though. With blankets scattered there and here, The mess will only grow and grow.
Will ya look at that pie? Oh my. Oh my! Whipped cream piled high. To die! To die!! I'm sworn to a diet. I sigh. I sigh... With all of my might. Oh why? Oh why?
Shall I compare thee to a birthday cake? Thou art more layered and more fattening: Harsh winds do force thy candles fire to shake, And birthday’s end does cause a happening: