The Pringle knows not "no"
It doesn't dwell on reason
To eat just one, in some locales
Is classified as treason.
The Pringle knows not "subtle"
It's shape is built for sexing
Your stomach, through the tongue and mouth
With flavoured maltodextrin.
The Pringle knows not "sparing"
It demands to be demolished
In starchy stacks of fifty high
Till dieting is abolished.
The Pringle knows not "friendship"
It's a dehydrated potato
Of reconstituted wheat starch
To your Clouseau, it is Cato.
The Pringle knows not "ulcer"
It scoffs at indigestion
With yeast and monoglycerides
And the power of suggestion.
The Pringle knows not "mercy"
(Or "rehab" or "remission")
A whole that's greater than its parts
Defines the word "addiction".
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