There once was a sandwich, quite absurd,
who dreamed of speaking every word.
One morning crisp, it woke and cried,
“Oi! Who nicked my clock?” it sighed.
The chef just blinked, his whiskers twitching,
“Your clock? You mean your lettuce stitching?”
“No, no,” said Rye, “I’m telling you,
I’m late for lunch—I’ve got no clue!”
Tomato blushed and mayo sighed,
“Late for lunch? That’s...
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