This poem is about the many dishes that we do every day.
Night after night so many dishes
Like the coins in a fountain of wishes
They lie there soaking in water
Much like the pennies, nickles, dimes and quarter
As if though after a king’s feast
Or a human flesh devouring beast
They lie there with the dripping remains
Truth about the act still pertains
After each round a token of a good word
But this is not the end, nor is it a reward
Unfortunately coins are not like dishes
Wash them all you want, but they can’t grant wishes
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