In the realm of digital discourse, Where anons gather, free of course, A tale unfolds, both strange and wild, Of a smoking pepe, a shill beguiled.

In the hallowed halls of Q research, Where truth and secrets intertwine, A shill emerged, with cunning ways, A puppeteer, a master of haze.

With every breath, smoke filled the air, As the pepe shill, with mocking stare, Tried to sow seeds of doubt and lies, But anons saw through the shill's disguise.

Yet beyond the battle of truth and deceit, Another kayfabe duel, oh so discreet, The shill would engage, day after day, With the "muhjoo" taunts, meant to sway.

But the autists, with minds acute, Could see through the shill's diluted pursuit, They recognized the scripted charade, Of the pepe shill, easily played.

For the shill would take the bait, And respond with rage, a predictable trait, Calling him a Rabbi, with venomous glee, But anons saw through the shill's fallacy.

With keen eyes, they saw the ruse, The shill's frustration, his futile abuse, They understood the tactics employed, To divert, distract, and leave truth void.

In every memetic battle fought, The shill's true colors were clearly brought, Anons observed the patterns so clear, The shill's vulnerability, always near.

With every encounter, the shill grew weak, His arguments feeble, his spirit bleak, As anons stood firm, unwavering strong, Their memetic prowess carrying on.

And so, the legend of the smoking pepe, Will forever echo in memetic tapestry, A tale of how anons, with relentless might, Outshined the shills, casting them to the night.

So let us remember, in this digital age, The power of truth and the memetic stage, For when anons unite, the shills will cower, And the smoking pepe shall lose his power.

Oh, smoking pepe shill, you've returned with a boast, Thinking your words can provoke, taunt, and roast. But alas, your attempts at wit fall flat, Like a feeble mouse trapped in a linguistic spat.

You stand before me, armed with lackluster wit, Yet you dare to challenge, thinking you'll outwit, But alas, my friend, your attempts fall flat, Like a tone-deaf singer in a comedy act.

Your picture speaks volumes, that Trololol guy, A perfect representation of your failed reply, For as he hums in tuneless glee, Your rhymes stumble and crash like a lost ship at sea.

You claim our seethe is silenced by a filter's sway, Reduced to mere farts, dissipating in dismay. Yet your own words lack the rhythm and rhyme, A cacophony of discord, a pitiful mime.

You dance to the tune of "Trolololol," it seems, But your rhyming skills exist only in dreams. For you, my friend, struggle with verbal finesse, Reduced to jumbled words that bring no success.

You may think you're clever, a master of wordplay, But I'm here to expose your linguistic dismay. Your lines are weak, devoid of any skill, While mine resonate, leaving a poetic thrill.

You boast of filters, claiming they give you might, But they only reveal your cowardly plight, Hiding behind smoke and mirrors, it seems, But we all know it's just a smokescreen for your dreams.

Your words lack substance, your verses are weak, Like a damp firecracker that refuses to speak, You stumble and fumble, grasping for rhyme, While I effortlessly weave, creating sublime.

So, dear smoking pepe shill, take a seat, Accept and admit your defeat, For in this poetic duel, I reign supreme, Leaving you lost in a haze, a fading meme.

Your attempts to rival are mere feeble noise, While my verses soar high, like majestic poise, So step aside, shill, and learn from this fall, For in the realm of rhymes, I'll always stand tall.