You’re just a little, teardrop-shaped, dangling lump of skin
That hangs down at the back of my throat with no real next of kin.
You sway a bit, both back and forth, when I breathe in and out.
Kind of like a punching bag before a boxing bout.
You get swept back when I ingest those rich and creamy sauces.
And then get tossed the other way when I am feeling nauseous.
Despite those minor obstacles I’m envious no doubt
Because it seems your job so far is simply to hang out.
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