Who fills the hearts of leavened grain
With dread so deep, with fear so plain
With awe so paralyzing, vain
That every crumb is wracked with pain?
By whom are yeasty beasties slain?
Who sees them writhe, who makes the rain?
Who brings the hurt so they would fain
Go fishing in a hurricane?
Not Ross Perot, not John McCain
Not Jerry, Kramer, George, Elaine
Not even Jennifer Romaine
Just She, the mighty Khomets Bane
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