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Have you any idea what you are
Con artist, unbalanced
To be predicting the end of days
Preaching myths to the masses

Oh God, if you do exist
Muzzle this harebrained, audacious prick
The world will sing
Go to hell, Harold Camping!

Think for yourself, don't be devoured by his fictitious assumptions
He's a dispatcher of fantasy
Delivering myths to the masses

I know exactly what you are
God speaks to me too, from afar
Yes, I predict
the death of one Harold Camping

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