Somewhere out there just before the horizon ends
Sits a turnip farmer all alone,

Talking about how the 7 deadly sins are stitched into every fabric, every Fibre of the universe
The worms stuffing their faces with greed and vegetable, stop to listen to him intently
As do the turnips, the soil, the nothingness and  even a prophet or two,

He talks and talks, that's all he does
Abou...

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