Perhaps you have mistaken me for this traditional breakfast;
why not tuck in while I divest you of your trousers.
Perhaps you have mistaken my courtesy for lechery;
exhaust your rage against this potato likeness of Her Majesty, the Queen.
Perhaps you have mistaken my craftsmanship for iconoclasm;
relive your error in this fine commemorative plate.
Perhaps you have mistaken my sentimentality for sarcasm;
fasten electrodes to my nipples, watch the polygraph, flat as Norfolk.
Perhaps you have mistaken me for a cyborg;
smell the bacon hanging from my jowls, my mushroom ears,
my gobful of beans.
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