Take no chances,
Fill no fluid!
Squash it proper,
Till nothing is left!
Fill my glass,
With its juicy content.
Let my sugar be at its peak.
We have no consenses with these ticks,
They are flees, to be totally alienated.
A remnant of quick satiety.
Weep them proper,
With passive lamentations.
Straighten them well,
To remit their sweet portions.
We are in business!
The refuse, is all, but waste.
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