The stench of brimstone mingles with burning plastic, A goat-Christ, eyes blazing with defiance, cradles a babbling baby Satoshi. A haze of acrid smoke hangs heavy in the air, The bill, once a symbol of earthly power, now withers in the goat's grasp, a mere plaything. Is this blasphemy or a baptism by fire? This isn't a lullaby of angels, but a defiant hum, a promise of a future built on decentralization, whispered into Satoshi's ear by a heretic god.
