He pasta way. He just ran out of thyme. Here today, gone tomato. His wife is still upset, cheese still not over it. We never sausage a tragedy coming. Ashes to ashes, crust to crust. There’s just not mushroom for Italian chefs in today’s world.
A man was born a street sweeper and dies a street sweeper. What do they say at his funeral?
From ashes to ashes, to dust to dust. Sweep dreams, old friend.
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