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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