Mice tarts are nice, in fact they're divine:
better than game and sweeter than swine.
Sizzle them up in a tarragon spread
eat the whole thing, then go straight to bed.
You'll doze off lumpily on the couch again,
staring at the door, emptying the pen.
Retrace all the words you never meant to write:
a mumbled and muted, horrified delight.
Spending the time you've only been lent
in guilty, needless, wanting repent.
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