h a l f b a k e r yNot the Happy Cuddle Club.
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'Twas baketime, and the rising dough
Did rise and spread out in the tray,
All crusted were the fresh-baked loaves,
And the croissants golden lay.
"Beware the Bubbawock, my son
The words that sting, the clause that traps !
Beware the fishbone's stink, and
shun
The frumious Beanangel's patch !"
He took his sharp bread knife in hand;
Long time the antipodean foe he sought
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Bubbawock, with words of flame,
Came whiffling through the 'Bakery,
And grumbled as it came!
One, two! One, two! And through and
through,
The sharp bread knife went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And hast thou slain the Bubbawock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas baketime, and the rising dough
Did rise and spread out in the tray,
All crusted were the fresh-baked loaves,
And the croissants golden lay.
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Well done. Now, how long will it take before
[Vernon] comes and pisses on your campfire? |
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Hate to point this out, but slaying the bubbawocky and then celebrating with deathday croissants is a legitimate idea |
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Hate is so-o-o-o-o overrated, don't you think? |
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I'd rather go straight to the kill, and avoid all of the
hassle. |
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