I told you, son,
don’t eat all that candy, or you’ll get sick.
Don’t eat all those fire chips, or you’ll get sick.
Don’t drink all that pink lemonade, or you’ll get sick.
But Mom, you bought it.
He ate them, drank it, and got sick, hovered over bowl at o-dark-thirty.
“I find the mother guilty!”
The Honorable Pantry, Judge of the Kitchen Court, declares.
“No more chips, no more sweets.”
Think, Kristen, think—that junk isn’t cheap.
Don’t blow health on garbage sugar treats.
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