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Multitudes of men forming lines like ants
Quickly moving as if they knew their wants Going somewhere along the edge of time Only to find some acts of pantomime Some happily buy their favorite toys Others riding proudly like hot cowboys In wagons powered by liquid horses Even sometimes filled with blooming roses But most of their ears can not hear a cry Whether from a lad or from passers by For the tune pods like tentacles that bind Those small satellite disks to be unkind Hence, its sound waves can never penetrate To their insensitive bosoms to date
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