What gives us delight?
What fills us with pride
As we blow out the light?
What fills us, indeed!
For is that not our aim?
To fill ourselves up;
Is that not our game?
For each of us here's like
An inn on the plains
And we stuff ourselves full
Until no room remains
'Tis the way of all flesh;
We will always make room
For the things we think treasures...
... We will ALWAYS make room.
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