By Stefanie Fontker

You say you have it
The Cure
That it’s in you
Running through
Your very veins
I think rather
It’s on you
Perhaps in your
Pocket, front or back?
Save your breath
I won’t buy it
For a million dollars
Your smile tells me
That it’s obviously
A rip off
That mouth of yours
Is a multi-millionaire
Corporation itself
No, I will not
Trade you my last
Piece of bread
For a single vile
I’ll give it to you
For the recipe, though
No, no, no
Never mind, Mr. Salesman
I think I’d rather
Wait it out in the hospital
Try your sales pitch
On my corpse
You’d have better luck

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