Brimming bowl held aloft by local man
It melts, it melts -- this damp'ning mound -- and I try to scoop up the strawberry nectar as soon as I glimpse its shimmering wink under these buzzing yellow lights.
I can never score it all -- drops and dribbles inevitably linger -- but even if I could, would I be able to swallow such volumes? It threatens to drown me, ballooning my lungs pale with Pepto-Bismal pink, and my careful and constant tally of progress is surely an attempt to regulate and encapsulate this dribbling tide.
I can't help it; I can't stop it. I have lost, surely, or will soon. Please rescue me while you still can. Please. And bring a spoon.