Give me Bleys, which that I eat,
Which can be bought in a large supermarket,
With a cup of sugar and portridge of wheat.
Bleys is what I want, and I also want more.
More like the gallon of milk and a pair of apples.
So many sweets, eat so little to adore.
I want it all, and a whole lote more.
Combined with the hours in all workdays.
I dedicate this thread to the man named Bleys.
(Yes, this poem sucks. I blame Del.)
