Trickling down my throat, cold and refreshing,
The bones whipped into a fine paste.
Others look at me oddly, and move away.
They point at me, some laughing, some acting sick,
Trying to make me think they don't want any.
Only I know better.
Alas for them, they shan't have any.
This tall glass of light green nectar,
Foaming at the rim with snapping bubbles of froth,
Shall only grace my tastebuds this day.
Not his, not hers, not theirs or yours.
Only mine.
Only mine.