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If the lowing moo-cows
line up for your
concoctions,
liberally caked with
Keep-it-Weird sprinkles,
and boxed in rosy hues,
and the lucre keeps
flowing,
might you not pass on
to your milkers,
without a grudge,
pay and conditions
that mirror their
their service to your
happy life as baron
of bakey num-nums?
Box em up.
Cash only.

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