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I'm no Poet
I can't knead my metaphors 
Into a pie 
Or cook my similes like a steak 
Juicy and well done
My stir fry turns into a bittersweet paradox
My personification
Won't talk to me
After I kept him on the fire 
And let him burn
My figurative language was a mistake
I can't even make a cake
Or an apple pie of amazing all American alterations
But the one thing I can do is
Place water in a cup of ice cubes
And bring you a glass of Irony 
Served Cold

The End

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