This isn't one of those old funnybooks
Where Popeye & Co. keep on coming back
To live their lives exactly the same way
Over and over again, sans apparent
Reasoning behind the idiotic
Reiteration of the rhyme, which,
Like life itself, tender plasmic issue,
Concession to nature's force majeure,
Comes squashed between doughy, juicy buns
Constantly headed into that gaping
Maw sunken into the kisser of Wimpy,
Is it?
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