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Went to the pantry, wherein, for the reason
Of frost, among bottles, stood ink in a cruet.
She brought the pot with her and poured ink into itInstead of vinegar.When served on the table, Then I gave it a trylook;The dog wouldn't eat it! For So I summon the cook then I cry:
Bigos in mournig is a novelty, but
Don't you dare make an inkwell out of my butt!</poem>
