The Messenger

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The mountain gods had penned a note.
Pepperoni’s what they craved.
They reminded me, my station
“Messenger,” said they.

“Don’t fail us now,” they cautioned.
So promptly I took flight,
Stepping from amongst them,
Moving out into the night;

Arriving at the parlour
I wouldn’t be deterred
I passed on all side dishes
Pepperoni’s, what they served.

There was no beer or breadsticks.
That was 66.

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