Rot cooked in a broth,
Tastes fine to a sod,
For he is a fine sod indeed.
Ye haven't seen his sword,
It's twisty and short like the sod,
For there is no better sod indeed.
Ye haven't heard his call,
Even boar ran away with a sore,
God forbid, he's a sod indeed.
But this sod...
This sod!
Is our Sod.
Town's Sod ( poem)
Author
Zeusomega
M.D of Olympus Pvt Ltd. Seeking [Boltzmann brain], Male
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