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From the crevices of impacted crumbs, From deep inaccessible grease traps, From the places where the jam drips, From drains where scavengers hide, From dust and cobwebs, mildew and rust, Something stirs.
It has dipped into the cauldron and pulled forth a morsel from eons past. Now again the thought returns to the brew. The ripples fade. It sinks once more to the inky black, to rise never again. This, the dirge of the auto-churn.
http://www.cafepress.com/hatmonkey
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