What's abstracting this my sweetest season
From out its textured rind of winter waste,
What force is it that emptied life of reason,
Stuffed baggy mathematicks in its place?

Such benighted sorrows are a porridge:
Material and logos over-chilled.
Guts need meat and hearts desire courage!
For one to kill another must be killed!

With this in mind tonight we signal Pro***,
Messenge-plussing through our messenge-minus sky!
My doctor said that when you switch to Pro***,
Your body level blood stays level-high.

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