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Conscience: Where are you taking me?
Phoebe: Be quiet!
Conscience: Well, Anise's sweater?
(...)
Phoebe: (reads Helga's poem) All the days of my week, I write the name I dare not speak. The boy with the cornflower hair, my beloved...and my despair.
(The audience cheers. Helga faints.)
Stinky: Poor Helga. She's been shot through the heart by a purty poem.