I think this omlette is making me psychic.
I think, as I saw at this round of beansy toast,
I see you pushing through butcher's strips
into a backroom bare-knuckle boxing match
between a pair of swarthy opthamologists.
When I supped my Bovril I heard cotton ripping.
I experienced an attack of overwhelming clairgustance:
if death tastes like a sort of vinegary ragout,
then I am afraid your days are numbered.
The French fancies taught me nothing.
Perhaps, some futures are not meant to be seen.
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