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Give us your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the morAns, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp beside the Lounge gate! ArrowheadPride has always sucked, Inc.
If you're a tender soul, prepare ye to be found battered agains the rocks of our shores, gazed at by passersby in the night, amused at your misfortune.
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