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The clock strikes twelve
A quiet rumble deep inside
In the shadows of the hallway I tread on creaking wooden floors
Guided by the pale white beacon
Of the refrigerator door The shelf reveals the prize I seek
No willpower left, the spirit weak
Midnight feast in the cold kitchen light
Leftovers calling me into the night A symphony of silver and glass
The hunger will pass!
Cold pizza! Microwave
countdown begins! (ahhhh)
Full at last
The hunger fades to sleep (hummmm)