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LORD HARKONNEN
The sponge has sprung
A leak y
Bucket holds no stones.
Maybe gravel is the truth
To my freedom.
Grit and broken teeth
Fill mouths. Tried and tested
Followers of Pyornkrachzark
Bear these wounds,
As to declare their transformation,
From real to alive.
Focus is wasted
On basting this thanksgiving life
Long feast.
My world skewed.
Every sunday is a super bowl.
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