Postmodern Astronomy
I’ve got no ruckus with Polaris
North is north, true is true
At least within a degree or so
Nothing finer than Ursa Minor
That dipper, she’s legit
It’s her phony shooting stars, the Ursids,
Piss me off
None of them real stars, these bitches,
Just trashy sand and dust combustibles
Lying little flashers
Not stars, not reindeer
Not shooters, not Billy the Kid
Little Ursa doesn’t even own a gun
Don’t waste your Christmas wishes like I did
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