If I were a bountiful ground sloth, locked up in a sooty fire flue,
I’d pine and I’d moan, in lusty o’ertones, and if that didn’t work, I’d mew.
I’d wiggle and shake and cause little earthquakes of the loveliest iridized hue,
Scattering drops in puddling plops from the branches of nearby dewed yew.
– to the tune of “Time a Bottle” by Jim Croce

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