Cri De Cur

I say we’ve eaten, (You say we’ve dined).
I call it posh, (You call it refined).
When’t cup is upskittled, (You call it upset).
Me bib gets a soaking, (Your napkin gets wet).
It makes me feel little, (You call it inferior).
It churns up me innards, (You call it interior).
I must make me mind up, (You call it decide),
To kill Thee, (that’s murder), or me, (suicide).

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