Our Pasta, who "Arghh" in the colander, Swallowed be thy sauce. Thy serving come, Thy strands be wrung, On forks as they are on spoons. Give us this day our garlic bread, And forgive us our starchiness, As we swashbuckle, splice the main-brace and cuss, And lead us not into Kraft parmessan, But deliver us from Chef Boy-Ar-Dee, For thine are Meatballs, and the beer, and the strippers, for ever and ever. R'Amen.
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