My stomach is singing the song of it’s people.
Far over the big fridge-freezer cold.
To cupboards deep, and pantries old.
We must avast, ere break of fast,
Eat all the things-the grumble told.
The hunger roaring on the height.
The stomach moaning in the night.
The thoughts were bread, with chocolate spread.
Our eyes like saucers glazed with light.
have I declared that I love this site yet today
Sometimes I wish I was an octopus so I could slap eight people at once