O Weird Suns Telepathic masses of iridescent gas, Confuse for me This song of the many-biased man, Who after he had mocked
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While his heart Through all the signalling Ached in confusion to stop thinking And relax with some dank memes. Vain hope—for them!
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For his ingroup he no longer understood, Their feeds filled with strange claims; And fools, Who failed to consider
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