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What is it we cherish?

What gives us delight?

What fills us with pride

As we blow out the light?

What fills us, indeed

For is that not our aim?

To fill ourselves up;

Is that not our game?

For each of us here's like

An inn on the plains

And we stuff ourselves full

Until no room remains

'Tis the way of all flesh;

We will always make room

For the things we think treasures...

... We will ALWAYS make room.