P10’d, you close your eyes, but the device no more flies.
That’s apnea.
On the bed you recline, but these pillows ain’t fine.
Try Amara?
Frigging thing sends the air rushing past your passage ling’
as well as up your smeller.
Was OK in an older day, but now there’s no way.
It’s performance ain’t stellar.

From your mouth you can’t drool; ’cause it’s arid as a rule—
dry’s your “blah-blah.”
P10’s no longer sweet; it’s bringing you defeat, off you shove
the thing strapped to your bean; then the snores start to stream;
spouse cries, “Wah-wah!”
So you flee from that P10, and then you will see
’bout Amara.

With full mask, close your eyes; but this thing also don’t fly.
That’s apnea.
On the bed you recline; this one too you’ll decline.
Fie Amara!
Frigging thing tightly will not cling to your face and brings
leaks that tickle your smeller.
Was OK in an older day, but now there’s no way.
It’s performance ain’t stellar.

So, neither one is cool; thus you must find a new tool,
not Amara
nor P10; neither’s sweet both bring to you defeat; you can’t love
either one of these schemes; both devices, it seems, are just caca.
You did flee from that P10; you’ll also not be
with Amara.