“I am a great soft burger thing. Smoothly rounded, with no smoke, with pulsing grill marks filled by fog where my mouth watering clams used to be. Rubbery appendages that were once my steam; bulks rounding down into legless humps of soft slippery ham. I leave a moist trail when I move. Blotches of diseased, evil gray come and go on my surface, as though aurora borealis is being beamed from my kitchen. Outwardly: dumbly, I shamble about, a thing that could never have been known as an Albany expression, a thing whose shape is so mouthwatering a travesty that Krusty becomes more obscene for the vague resemblance. Inwardly: alone. Here. Living under the land, under the sea, in the belly of my ruined roast, whom I created because my time was badly spent and I must have known unconsciously that Krusty could do it better. At least the four of them are safe at last. Skinner will be none the wiser for that. It makes me a little happier. And yet ... Skinner has won, simply ... he has taken his revenge ...

I have no mouth. And I must steam.”