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So it was when I was young That battles raged upon my tongue.
I'd choke and gag and heave and spit Despite best intents to swallow it My throat closed like a prison gate.
My tongue locked in with vile cell mate.
And even though I loathed the taste It yet remained, a cud-like paste.
Even today, I still steer clear Should ever that emerald squash appear, But if it comes to what I must ingest There's but one thing I more detest: Pride.