This is your automatically generated poem for today.
One's left with only sorrow and disease
any diner chooses escargots
that tinned hornedbeef we stored smells more like cheese
so stink the rotting skins from long ago.
And thus it was a sib steeped in sottise
benumbing London's dandies as they beau
we chill like nudists put on ice to freeze
but offering kids a sweetie that's a no-no.
Faced with mud you'll turn up your culotte
we'll smack the dibbing kiddie's little bot
if you drink mate you're an Argentine.
Oh brother even when you groan I grok
one carts off debris marble from the block
both Beaune and Chianti flow from Hippocrene?
