I owe you nothing. Well. As I remember it we have what’s called a stalemate.

Zero is the pot. Lady lucks hands are empty tonight.

As I recall, there is nothing spent so, nothing shall be made.

I owe you nothing.

Nothing is always how you pay.

January so barren, before the great plague.

Still I appeased you and nothing I made.

A heart so empty, scooped out like guts from your supper.

Rotten foul is no dinner no food eaten for dinner.

Table is bare no food to be made.

And you always owe nothing while the rest of us fade.

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