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Ink – by Alistair Acraman

There’s a fly in the ointment
It’s started to sink
It slipped on the paper
And had a blue drink

She’s a bluebottle now
And lives with a sheep
She forgot about paper
But ink stained so deep

Post a comment — Trackback URI RSS 2.0 feed for these comments This entry (permalink) was posted on Sunday, July 6, 2008, at 5:16 pm by tim. Filed in singularity.

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