The Ballad of the /ptg/ Poster

In a land of frogs and glowing screens,
Where jannies cry and Trump still reigns,
There dwells a crew both cursed and blessed—
The /ptg/ horde that never rests.

They post at dawn, they post at night,
Red hats on heads, all primed to fight.
With greentext swords and meme-fed dreams,
They ride the waves of web-born schemes.

The Leafs cry "We!", the Krauts say "Nein!",
The Britbongs whinge, the Yanks recline.
A Mexifren drops in with grace,
"Hola, bros," lights up the place.

"Trump won," they chant, with burning zeal,
Though fact-checks beg to make it real.
"Shills be damned!" the thread replies,
"We ride with God—no compromise!"

The thread rolls on, forever cursed,
Each slide a blessing and a thirst.
For Pepe smiles and Tucker's face,
They hold the line in cyberspace.