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"Oh sah, mistah purveyor of gruely yet strangely tempting snacks," said Oliver, wistfully wringing his hands as he approached the master, "I would so like some moh!"
The master turned pale and gasped. "Moh?" he whispered in an enquiring tone. "You want moh?" uttered the master as his voice became more mocking. "What the Dickens makes you think you would want moh? Nobody else wants moh! I don't think you actually want moh!"
Oliver's stomach growled so as he dreamt of the gruel that would be his if only he had the balls, the 'cajones' if you will, to ask for moh. Oh, the mounds of fresh gruel that could be his if only he reached upwards for his dreams. Instead, he had to pause a while, and decide upon which action would be his...