Ted Turner peered out a frosty window
His jumbo skyborne locomotive roared through thick cloud
The little mustache crawled on his upper lip like a crooked inchworm
Lonely, after selling the television for so long
And in his first newspaper of the month
resting dearly on the marble tray table
he got word of his wife's death on earth
He looked down a tremendous sky
and kept seeing her face in so many mosaic cornfields
Ted realized he didn't care to live or die
This was only life in the sky
And that's why he order three olives
In his highly anticipated vodka martini
Extra dry.
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