One thing that makes my poor dear mother cry
Whenever she and Dad come to Cheyenne
Is shopping at my grocery stores. They're high,
The prices she must pay back home. I plan
Each time to spare her this, but always fail.
We wind up in the produce section; she
Sees what there is, and gives a tiny wail.
She pays twice what I do for broccoli
(Or would were she not sick of it; there are
Small consolations). Woe to those who dwell
At the supply chain's furthest end, so far
That even iceburg lettuce, all aswell
With water costs more than I pay for beer.
I sympathize, yet gloat: it brings her here!
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