Pickles at dawn, pickles at dawn. 

Don't let your father draw pickles at dawn.

Mustard Pickle is on the floor,

The Fish-Judge throws him smirks.

Their fruit is growing tentacles

And squeezes 'till it hurts.

The fruit unzips old onion skins

To bare the rotten flesh.

She sprays sour wounds with vinegar

To clothe the naked smell. 

The fruit then puts on hy...

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