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Refined
Down the street's the
 Cloud factory.
 Manufactured puffs of white and black;
 The Refinery.
 Another city over's the
 Bigger factory.
 The clouds are joined by the smoky
 new recruits.
 The flame is forever the knife
 To the throat of the sky,
 And we don't hear what's whispered.
 We just see the puffs march out
 of their tunnels of black.
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