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There is a mushroom on the coaster

and there is a hedgehog next to the mushroom

on the coaster,

and the hedgehog is happy;

I know because he is smiling.

And on the mushroom on the coaster

there is a slice of mushroom

that dropped from the pizza-cutter

as you reached across the table.

My wine glass is on a paper napkin

at the edge of my plate

on your white lace cloth,

and you tell me the hedgehog does not have fleas;

no, not the happy hedghog on the coaster,

but the one you have trained to walk around the table

with the menu in its quills.

I see we have a choice for sweet:

creme brulee, chocolate truffles, or plum pie.

I make my choice, and

the hedgehog snuffles off to the kitchen,

nosing its way for dessert.