The newt's pole sinks and his time is over
While an iron pall is cast on his days.
A frothy mix will spread to cover
The mitten that points all ways.
A cruel necessity compels me to write these prophecies; though not, I freely admit, as cruel as the necessity that compels you to read them.
(continue to Prophecy 11)
I'm having my mitten Scotchgarded to repel the frothy mix before it can become a set-in stain.
If only it were that simple.
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