He’d compose three-beats about his hive, back before they were ripped away. Before the Syndicate came and killed them all. Sometimes, if the poems seemed like they’d probably be especially moving, he’d broadcast them over the open band. He’d do it until someone in authority ordered him to stop. And then after, he’d wait, and then he’d start broadcasting again. He’d done it so much, he knew he’d been blocked from the local feed by most of the captains. That was fine. Not everyone appreciated philosophical ponderings, especially when told in verse. Or maybe they were just like him, he mused.
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