The Tastiest Poetaster

Just now as I sat in the gazebo, Finn squeezed in next to me carrying a handful of Gobots.

“Hi, Dad-O.
“Hi, Finny.”
“I’m writing.”
“You’re… writing?”
“What are you writing?”
“Poems…? Really? What are the poems about?”
“Hearts?… What kind of hearts?”
“Poop hearts… I like talking about poop with you, Dad-O.”

Aaaand, Scene.

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