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Round goes the world
A constant motion
Felt to no one inhabitant
A steady force
Moving oh so slow
Around a ball of flame
We call the sun
Three hundred
Sixty-five
Point twenty-four
Days it revolves
The motion a source
Of many normal occurrences
Our four seasons
The ever changing constellations
The currents and tides
Each new day, dawn, and night
Though the inhabitants
Take no note
Ignoring the unfeelable
And forgetting the science
Behind the home
They so brutally harm
With chemicals in those tides
Smoke taking over the mornings
And blood splattering each season
Yet their home moves on
Ignoring its pain
Determined to give its slow killers
Their tides to toxify
Their dull and smoggy mornings
Their starry night skies
And it moves along its steady path
A slow revolution
Three Hundred
Sixty-Five
Point Twenty-four days
Around a ball of flaming gas.






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