Shakespeare, there’s a bad sonnet in my soup!

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Speak not of my issue with the pricey bill
but this condiment. Spice is just not spice
which saps when in sap soup, which rather sinks
and hides until the diner on it dines.
Waiter, spice is not this sorry carcass:
Here, look its wings. What thorax, antennae!
Spice comes in bottles at the supermarket,
whose worth’s unknown, although it has a price.
Spice doesn’t swim, not even doggy paddle,
nor swoop down to feast on putrid faeces;
spice saps not, rather strengthens the sapid,
although I must admit flies come for free.
“Please don’t speak loudly, sir,” said the waiter,
“Or else everyone will want to order them.”

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