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And what was too nasty to feed a dog—that is precisely what you threw down before your god. Did he perhaps die of what you fed him?
—Friedrich Nietzsche (1844–1900)
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a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.
—James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916)