The ribbon was worn, tattered and torn Like the heart of the scribe who pounded the keys. Bright red, it sat on the tiny desk His Underwood Olivetti Fingers putting to the test the speed of words he sees ...stomach rolls and rumbles He craves some canned spaghetti. But words kept spilling to the page descending falls to form cascades, then raining like confetti, Or noodles spilled, from canned spaghetti.
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