The Artist

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Each night he dines 
on the best we have to offer

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Hiding stains, we rug-pull
and doily-dust, best china
(cracked)
warmed by his relentless grill

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Lacks salt, please sweat some more –
I will not remember your sauce

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He gorges and purges,
ungrateful,
yet we beg for his return

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We can bake until we burn
but without his spark
it is only bread