The soup! The soup! The soup was cold!
How could such chilly-soup be sold?
I beckoned the waitress to my side.
"This soup is frigid-ice," I cried.
"I get right on that sir," she said,
But ice-skated on my soup, instead!
"It's frozen solid," she declared,
"I'll have another soup prepared."
However, I would have no such thing
As replacement soup or courtesy wings.
I put on my mittens, threw coins on the table,
And took my soup home where I would be able
To heat the soup up in the way that I choose,
"I'll have you yet, Soup!" I insanely enthused.
Strap it down to the ground, atom-bombing it thrice,
Now loaded with isotopes and glowing green rice.
The soup was still cold, but I had no delusion,
My dear soup and I just discovered cold fusion.
The money I made was enough I could buy
Enough soup to eat soup 'til the day I would die,
But I wanted the soup I bought long ago.
I burned and I pined, but how-so apropos,
When the soup finally melted, my cravings were fickle.
And I suddenly wanted a tasty, frozen Popsicle.
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