Lonely Planet
Dear PSO-J-3-1-8-dot-5-dash-22,
You haven’t got a sun or moon, and you are very new:
You must be cold: if there’s no light, of course you can’t absorb it,
And also, which is really weird, you haven’t any orbit.
I think of you, you youngster, viz. twelve million years or so,
And how you float, a lost balloon, without a decent glow,
The party’s pooped you, left you loopless, in the darkest dark,
Where black is black and white is black and nothing has a spark,
Though this is just as well, because you’re mainly made of gas,
And bob about, inert and friendless, a lonely load of mass.
As round as Eric Pickles, and as friendless as a banker,
Impervious to wit or action, love or lust or rancour,
You’ve never heard of twerking or of on-costs or delivery
Or endogenous growth theory. You’re merely rather shivery,
An exoplanet, wafting where there isn’t any breeze,
A gas supply the Labour Party aims, it hopes, to freeze,
But that’s beyond you and beneath you, quite a different game.
Nonetheless, astronomers might find a better name.
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