And too, the monster's mother came,
but, truth be told, she was a ditz.
Tumbleweed within her brain,
she fell into the slivovitz.

And then a problem was set forth -
for none had yet (of course) seen fit
to set down (right) the recipe
for making of fine slivovitz.

But then a prophet from afar
with monkey's fur upon his mits,
came striding through the emerald fog
that hearkened to the slivovitz.

"Hooray" did cry the townsfolk then,
(those namby-pamby common gits)
"For surely here has to us come
one who can channel the slilovitz!"

A scotsman wearing plaid and kilt
did wander in through wisps of mist
to contribute some random thoughts
about the treasured slivovitz!</meta>

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