Oh Thou, Ceramic Goddess
Lady of the Infinite Womb
The One with the cold, white skin
Thou who receive us in our moment of pain
When defeated we pray to Thee
Be our console, the refreshment of our fever
The receptacle of our guts
Be always clean and ready
From Monday to Sunday
In Winter and Summer
In every sanctuary, bar or pub
And in the poorest house
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Apura, que la entropia aumenta