© americanifesto / 場黑麥
Arise and be merry – the Goddess alights; she's come now to cure us of hate want and fright. We open our 3rd eyes and 4th chakra hearts; a few here are advanced, some stand at the start; it's crucial to know that all healing takes time, that decades of habit don't stop on a dime. To sacrifice daily of time wealth and love helps each one among us to rise up above the dictates of greediness sadness and fear which in modern cultures are always too near. We thus turn to One with a new agenda, to mighty and majestic Nuuzstathena; She teaches compassion and patience and care, for Hers is a glory merciful and fair. Sit therefore down quietly, utter no sound, but make the breath deep with the rump on the ground and curse not the vagrant or negative thought – instead keep the present with all that you've got. The anus should be loose not clenched or pulled up, the fingers and toes should be spread not balled up, then after a day or a month or a year you will start to notice the retreat of fear, the ending of dark thoughts and long sleepless nights, the dawning of clarity calmness and light.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥
0 Comments
In the early springtime of 1804 an enemy stood in our foothills and moors, it was not a Russian or from further west, instead it was sickness – the dreaded Black Pest. It marched on the heels of a deep prolonged drought, it tore at all people (priest midwife and lout), it was a tenacious and deadly disease that all but had forced us down onto our knees. Some doctors from Iysh that lies in the north discovered the Sharpstand's medicinal worth, applied it to boils that covered the skin, infused it in tonics that healed from within. They shared their new knowledge with peers far and wide, who watched as the skins of their patients soon dried, soon ceased with rank seeping, soon lost their red hue, within but a fortnight the weak sprung up new. The Pest it was vanquished by what was once weed, lowly Mountain Sharpstand met our greatest need, and saved us from decades of hardship and woe, we now still turn to it and make sure it grows in valleys and households, hospitals and fields, who knows just what benefits it may yet yield.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Her bed was a mat made of tightly-wound straw; a mud-splattered pigsty was all the girl saw. She lived in the sty by her stepmother's choice with no human contact with no right to voice her daydreams and passions and all she'd been taught by pig ant and horsefly (of which there were lots). She'd wait for the swine to eat their daily fill of watered-down muesli and other such swill then scraped at the corners of their wooden trough – it kept her alive but was barely enough. Her clothes became tattered and worn through and through while her young half-sister got threads bright and new, was dressed in fine silken and shimmering robes and got tiny diamonds put in her earlobes. The sty-bound first daughter was ugly, you see, by her deceased mother's genetic decree, whom father had knocked up when he was a teen with salt in his currents and rage in his spleen. The newer addition was beautiful though with raven-like hair and skin as white as snow; her older blood-sibling would twitch shake then seize and splay her webbed toe-joints whenever she sneezed. The outcast grew slowly, her muscles were weak, although with her beasts she soon enough could speak, could see by each habit and movement and walk more than most mere humans convey when they talk. Her kindness was massive her compassion too her spirit and mercy they blossomed and grew, she then started praying (to whom she knew not), was thankful for her pitiful meager lot. A Goddess did hear her, sleek silent Oumbast, did send out a pussy to visit at last, its soft furry body did warm comfort feed the sty-bound first daughter in her time of need. On mouse rodent bunny the girl then grew strong and fled from the confines she had known so long, and became a healer of animals all, of horse cow and donkey of beast great and small. Her sister however was naught but a pest, swore at her own parents and tore every dress, then fled with a sailor to his foetid shore and lived in the manner of a spoiled whore.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 There once was a goddess, the Maiden of Spring, who did a most curious and mischievous thing – she holed herself up in a dank sodden cave enraptured by a handsome, dastardly knave. He'd spied her when life was beginning to teem, out walking in snowbanks from which budded green, and trapped her with cunning and love's sweet promise without even gracing her lips with a kiss. Forthwith to his light-starved and troglodyte lair is where he then took her, the Maiden so fair, and fed her with roots that grew deep down below until field and mountain was covered in snow. Our heroine then yearned to make her escape, to see the broad sunlit vast upper landscapes; she slipped from the grasps of her erstwhile lover to walk in the snowy fields sewing clover. As soon as the hot sun and warm winds did blow she longed her dark paramour once more to know and crept without making e'en one undue sound back down to his hidey-hole far underground. It's there that she winters and shelters from Fall until she is tugged pulled compelled dragged and called once more to the surface her deeds there to do, to make life erupt again, verdant and new.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Our Wall's not as great as the one farther east; it's quickly sprung over by woman or beast. It lies now in ruins but not long ago, its contours stood strongly through springtime and snow, its ramparts would scrape at and cling to the skies, it kept us quite safe from most foul enemies. At one point at least five kilometers long, it's spoke of in lore and sung about in song, it sheltered the maidens and kings of the day, who'd go there for battle and sometimes to play. Inside it were gardens and great castles too, that once were grand blooming fair mighty and new, but now all that's left is a lone tourists' shelter where young couples go for a prone, night-time swelter. Please come for a visit, it's well worth the trek to see what is now just with creepers bedecked but was once a bulwark against foreign hordes (we offer both guided and unguided tours).
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Much talk can be mustered and rumors be spread about how Grigovians cherish their bread. They like it in daytime and when it is night, they like when it's crispy, when not baked quite right. They'll eat it for breakfast, for lunch and din-dins, for “If there's bread baking then everyone wins.” When baked in an oven its smell will arouse the passions of all nearby gathering crowds, when given out freely to all passersby there won't be one single eye-socket left dry. It's made from just one or two ingredients, among them sage, thyme, and leaves from healing plants, that then get mixed into a base of nut flour, that's then left to sit for at least fourteen hours. “The hotter the better,” is what most cooks say, but some still prefer the more old-fashioned way of keeping the oven at much lower temps and opening up just its lower-most vents. So strong is this powerful, life-giving bread that some have accused it of waking the dead, like back when a woman who'd been gone a week did smell it and suddenly get rosy cheeks. While much can be said for it words won't suffice, the smell of it strongly one's nostrils entice, the feel of it lingers and sours the tongue – for ages its praises will surely be sung.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 There lies fairly nestled in a mountain bowl a bright, tiny cottage not modern nor old that houses a widow, her children (and theirs) who sleep in the cupboards or curled up on stairs. They forage for berry and honey and nut to bring back to their clean and water-tight hut, they know no convenience but never complain, assured that such action their honor would stain. One day while out planting her seeds in the loam the widow was harassed by an angry gnome who swore he would fill her life with woe and dread if he weren't allowed to occupy her bed. Without hesitation the old lass complied and ushered the short-round straight to the inside where he promptly sat down and ate up their food – his hunger was massive, his noises were rude. After they'd been sent to bed with hunger pangs the children did gather and cook up a plan to rid themselves and their fair home of its guest, that unwanted, hungry, and foul-tempered pest. The next day they told him of a special place where there were some females of his minish race; they said that it lay in the mountains above where he would be welcomed and showered with love. The gnome wanted nothing to do with the notion so the oldest daughter she mixed up a potion that put the intruder into a deep sleep – he fell to the floor and lay there in a heap. The children then carried the wee, tiny man (who fit into the smallest of frying pans) up to a small temple set high on a peak where he'd sleep and slumber for nearly a week. They prayed to the goddess who sheltered therein and asked her to bless their home, future, and kin, to erase the mind of the gnome when he woke, to keep him alive though and not let him choke. They never did hear what became of the man but prided themselves on their impromptu plan that freed them from that which had plagued them and theirs, their siblings whose beds were nooks, crannies, and stairs.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Her rhythm is true and her grace is sublime, she is Dah'zhou – mistress of all things on-time. She favors such people as know when to wake, like soldiers and doctors and persons who bake, like teachers and bankers and most household staff, who wake up at dawn before drawing a bath. She rides with her sister – fair, rose-fingered Dawn – in a golden chariot they're pulled along, that's spanned to two felines who lift soft paws high as they race and scamper across morning's sky. The two make much merriment while they complete their circuits through sunshine, rain, hail, wind, and sleet, sheltered from the weather and foul airs without in an airborne, golden, and mobile redoubt. Dah'zhou keeps no log-book, she gives few rewards, she won't punish people who would rather snore than get up and get out and tackle the day, who choose between warm, downy covers to stay. Instead she's been known to bring to life inside such persons who wake early an honest pride that stays with them long after darkness descends, that buoys their labors and infects their friends. So next time you find yourself wanting to snooze, remember there is more to gain than to lose, by waking up early and fleeing from bed with joy in your heart and a clear, rested head.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Ours is a robust, diverse economy; we farm many bushes, not just one main tree. In our desert regions grow figs, sheep, and dates; in Iysh are planted vast hectares of grapes; from Grig (our fine capital) clear to the west is where we've found apples and barley grow best. We harvest mine tailings left over from when the Soviets enslaved our shortest, strongest men and sent them to toil deep down underground where mountains of riches and death could be found. There are many minerals, some rare-earth too, there's goose, duck, and rabbit that taste good in stew, for curries and turmeric we're widely famed, for pelts, shoes, and pouches sewn from wild-caught game. These things are protected by a ministry (the People's Collective for Rock, Beast, and Tree) that answers to all citizens living here in a referendum at least once a year. We import as few foreign goods are we can, preferring to till, mine, and milk our land. To keep ourselves free from state-sponsored invaders we plant rice, beans, eggplant, corn, squash, and potaters. We're looking for labor, we pay well and fair, we're not prone to suffer from food shortage scares, so come to Grigovia ye one and all, 'till now we've avoided the global free-fall that's plaguing our neighbors, our friends wide and far, who now wish to steer by our small nation's star. All hail to the Goddesses who number Ten, for how they have blessed us and our verdant fen, we lift up our praises, we make offerings, we give thanks for living like queens and like kings.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 On acres of grounds and in countless displays we tell mankind's story from then to today, at least from the view of Grigovia's past, please come for a stroll or just run through real fast. About half the people that come here do so their learning and knowledge and culture to grow, the others (like tourists) just dash on fleet feet – they'd rather relax, rest their bones, drink, and eat. A restaurant lies at the end of the tour that one cannot reach but through our big front doors, we did this because of an honest desire to have people eat well of learning's hot fire; to fill their minds first and their intestines last; to see to their double and filling repast. We have cloth, tool, weapon, and art galleries that sprawl under soaring vaults and swooping eaves, that are filled with treasures made by man and not, that we strain to preserve from foul, creeping rot. The resto serves tchuirff and fine food and good eats, from Iysh in the north to Gar Nuuzsh in the east, some snacks from the south and bites from Pyltagrad, please try them then sit back both sated and glad. We hope you will visit the National Vault, if not though it is your own damnable fault, there is no set fee so please pay what you like, food prices are kept low (sans seasonal spikes). Buses transport daily to our vast compound from just about every city and town. We hope you will come soon and witness what's grand about our beloved Grigovian land.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Next month we shall honor our self-liberation with grand parades and nation-wide celebrations. Back in October (1944) were Nazis and Soviets poised at our door, both waiting for the proper moment to strike our miles of trenches and defensive dikes. They had not intruded far into our ken before of a sudden two groups of women – old ladies and mothers with knives in their teeth – had sprung from some fighting-holes deep in the heath. They'd stalled the advance of our two deadly foes, had dampened his ardor and bloodied his nose, had halted a moment the oncoming Blitz with screams in their bosoms and milk in their tits. Now cautious and wary the foe did advance after having cleaned up his soiled underpants, with eyes stapled open and fear in his veins did he get to moving his armored war-trains. He entered a country stripped from peak to fell; its bridges torn down and poison in its wells; its bounty eroded; its people vanished; its fine reputation besmirched and tarnished. Before he could settle and plan strategy emerged from the tunnels (ordered, silently) a vast local army armed just with its hands to drive the base enemies out of its lands. To maximize its psychological fright it struck in the darkest deep hour of night and tore out the hearts of its enemies two with tactics both ancient and brand-spanking new. Now armed with his shiny, slick war-making tools the bold rebel army gave chase to the fools who had dared to enter into its domain and gave him good reason to not come again. We are very grateful for the sacrifice of all those brave warriors who joined in the fights, who made sure that we all – that you, him, and me – could stand here rejoicing, happy, proud, and free.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 The 9th Mountain Rangers are calling to arms all young men and women from cities and farms, from hamlets, skyscrapers, suburbs near and far, there's no need to prepare just come as you are. The 9th has been shaping its raw volunteers into hardened soldiers for 200 years, first formed during conflict in 1813 ours is still a tight-knit and family-like team. We instruct in aspects of modern war-making, in subterfuge and guerrilla undertakings, in sabotage, hacking, and counter-surveillance, in cleanliness, honor, and marching in phalanx. Our uniforms blend into rock-face and soil; our pride is deep-rooted in blood, sweat, and toil; we ask that you lend us your muscles and ears; your sweethearts will greet you with music and cheers. Come visit our offices in Grig's downtown, come join this here unit, increase its renown, protect our dear borders from enemies base and help us to defend our glorious race.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Vast wind farms abound on the Great Barren Plain where few people live and thus fewer complain. They're built to high standards of technology, can capture such gusts as would barely move trees. Deep wells also tap into geo-therm heat (through cycles that are on an endless repeat) by pulling hot water from deep underground and using its steam to send turbines around. Solar collectors dot the Great Dune Sea, all gathering photons by day, silently, but these must be washed and always cleaned of dust lest they should develop a light-blocking crust. There's coal in our mountains, some wide seams of it, but we're not much into just burning the shit. We'd rather turn algae into diesel fuel or harness sources that are renewable. All things that make power are owned and belong to each native person born in the Yiptlong, or brought to life within our national borders – to all of Grigovia's fine sons and daughters. We've set up a true non-profit corporation to make sure that all electricity won gets doled out and shared without too much corruption lest there should flare up a vast social eruption. GriSol is its shortened, legitimate name, to honor the source whence all life truly came, invest in our future and make our land great, together we can all mankind elevate.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 She won't be heard coming, with licks cleans herself, is curious, cunning, and likes a high shelf. She climbs in the treetops, has no fear of height, can see well in darkest day and brightest night. Her hearing's exquisite, her sense of smell too, she'll play with the laces that hang from a shoe, she is always watching and can simply vanish as if she'd been from this our universe banished. We honor her coming by petting her fur, by pulling out insects and prickers and burrs, we cherish our Goddess whose love transcends caste, come join us and celebrate slender Oumbast.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Her body is human but here's a strange slant – her head's been replaced by the skull of an ant. Her mother she did it a long time ago, did knock off her head with a single swift blow, to prove to the daughter just who was the boss, then into hellfire the dome-piece did toss. Soon Ghali felt sorry to cause such cruel harm, did reach out with one of her thousands of arms, did pluck from an army of ants passing by the shapeliest carapace that she could spy. Then she placed said carapace on the bare stalk and told poor Ganestryx to stand up and walk, then breathed some life into her daughter's limp form whose heart started pumping whose flesh became warm. Ants are known as masters of roads and pathways; the moving of resources consumes their days; they undertake projects regardless of size; to protect each other they lay down their lives. Ganestryx she shelters and watches over vagabonds, travelers, all types of rovers, all persons who venture beyond hearth and home, who leave, bounce, skedaddle, who wander and roam. So next time when planning to head for the hills, to leave behind worries, possessions, and bills, remember to include in your prayer mix a plea to our patroness, fair Ganestryx.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 We're over-excited hereby to proclaim a new research project, a bright knowledge-flame. It is a joint venture between two great lands, both ready and willing to meet the demands that pure, honest science requires and needs to bring forth hard data and satisfy creeds. Within the next fortnight our rocket will fly from a floating platform up into the sky, the waters are managed by Indonesia, that fine, willing partner to Grigovia. The vessel is not manned but steered by remote, its systems will analyze tiny space-motes for traces of metals (titanium, gold), soon space and its riches will be ours to hold. We're planning on mining the asteroid field – who knows what vast treasures its members might yield? – this daring endeavor we'll do by robot as we sit here watching from couch, chair, and cot. The robots are programmed to set up a base for meeting and gathering in near-Earth space all of the materials, fragments, and chunks that will be poured over by our science-monks. For more information log onto our site; tune into our broadcast that runs day and night; rejoice with us as we soar into the skies where what might await us remains a surprise.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Our Self Defense Forces are taking recruits, come march with them proudly in camouflaged boots. They don't stand on outward appearances much but value persons who work well in a clutch, who use their resources with daring and grace, who are not afraid to smear mud onto face. Their weapons are rifle and garrote and knife, they do not seek war but are ready for strife, they hack and they hamper, disrupt and confuse, there are but few tools they're not willing to use. They thwart Rus and Ynki, our two greatest foes, they harass and badger and bloody the nose of any imperial superpower before which most other nations shake and cower. Enlistment is open so please stop on by; Huzzah For Grigovia will be your cry; now onwards, dear comrades, once more to the breach, we've many more lessons these tyrants to teach.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 The girls place their presents on rock or stone chairs in hopes that a Goddess should come to roost there. The maidens they do this perhaps twice a day, much like in the time-tested Balinese way, but men also perform this fine holy rite when women are bleeding both daytime and night. Lit incense now rises upon a light breeze, to dance in the rafters and lick at the eaves, with luck it will reach vast Grigung high above and bring down upon us good fortune and love. These shrines grace the portals to house and abode, their backs mostly facing the Great Divine Node where many a Patroness goes back to rest as soon as the sun falls to sleep in the West. So long as the rituals keep happening Grigovian people will find cause to sing, if they are not followed though bad things occur, this is not a guess – of these things we are sure. Huzzah for the majesty of the Goddesses for they do forgive us our faults and trespasses, both now and forever we shout out in praise and marvel at their most harmonious ways.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Great salvos impacted on turret and gate, each one a reminder of perilous fate. We were few in number, who had stood our ground, who in Nuuzstathena much courage had found; through hell and high water she'd been at our side while peoples around us had crumbled and died, crushed under the hoofs of the Mungul invaders or sold out by cowards and dastardly traitors. Pushed back to our fortresses in the Yiptlong we'd watched as our enemies jumbled and thronged and pulled down our temples and destroyed our homes and defiled most everything that we'd known. With food supplies shrinking and hope running low there came a most sudden and Summertime snow that covered our mountains and enemies too, who watched as their fingers turned dark shades of blue, then watched as their digits went black and fell off and consumed their horses or ate from their troughs. The Goddess appeared at one morning's first light and spoke to us, saying, Don't give up the fight but fall on your enemies during this night dressed up as crazed demons awaken their fright. The Munguls were weakened by cold and disease, they broke with a sickly and half-hearted ease, we drove them straight down to our great river's banks where we took a moment to give sincere thanks. With swords in our clutches and light in the sky we stood up and sounded a great battle-cry, then rushed at the ranks of our once-mighty foes, destroying their spirit while they wept and froze. They begged us allow them to run from our lands, they stepped on their weapons and threw up their hands, we marched them immediately to our border with pride in our bosoms and fine marshal order. To honor the wisdom of 'Thena divine we built of some rockfall a victory shrine right there on the border at the very spot where Mungul invaders our people forgot. The shrine is still standing these many years on, we go once a year at the first light of dawn with handfuls of flowers and flagons of wine, we would love to see you there – join us next time.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 We do love our many bees because they pollinate our trees and all our flowers – blooms and such – without them we would not have much. Endlessly they flit and wander, here and there and even yonder, spreading life and love around so that our plates with food abound. Bright they are in mood and color similar to but few others for they drink from mountain streams and built mud hives in rafter-beams. When they come to share our spaces we rejoice and thank the Graces, Nuuzstathena, and Thriae, goddesses of work and play. To help bees sow plants of your own deeply into the spongy loam, add some bone-meal and much water, teach your son, nephew, or daughter, that the bees are our allies and not just stinging things that fly. Pesticides and toxic poison leave alone – this things please shun – for they kill things large and small that benefit us, one and all. (Brought to you by Friends of Bees (Grigovia edition), help us save our tiny friends and join us in our mission.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Our own modest steppe-land is not like another – watched over, protected, by blessed Steppe Mother. She shelters all animals under her wing and cares for the smallest and biggest of things, for field-mouse and springbok and furry cave-bat, for lizard, mosquito, and tiny sand-cat. Her colors are azure and ocher and gold, of her glory is in old stories much told, she makes all the grasses and midget trees bloom with dazzling blossoms and miniature plumes. Her watch never wavers through daytime and night, her justice is brutal and sudden and Right, her worshipers leave very few lasting traces to prove that they've been to the offering places. Her voice can be heard in the strong piercing winds that blow away evil and erase our sins, that race down the Yiptlong so steep and so high, as soon as the summers begin to turn dry. So come seek her presence, it is always near, it makes the soul vibrate and brings men to tears while women and babies just laugh with delight quite devoid of sorrow and empty of fright.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 At three thousand one hundred forty two meters our most holy peak is this country's sun-greeter. Higher than all other mountains around great Grigung she rises straight out of the ground and stretches her summit up into the sky, the bright rays of morning she is first to spy. Sent down from her cloud-swept and snow-covered summit fall cool rushing waters with dashing swift plummet that nourish our rivers and fill up our streams, to climb her is every Grigovian's dream. Much like to Mount Fuji or Gunung Agung are the countless praises that we've to her sung, she ignites our passions and lifts up our hopes with craggy defiles and perilous slopes. To us she is more than the House Of The Gods, her majesty strengthens us against the odds that greet us and meet us day in and day out, she helps us stay centered and drains us of doubt. Her outline it graces our largest bank-note, we're often heard with her sweet name in our throats, beloved by natives and people far-flung is our dearest mountain – great holy Grigung.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 We few humble people of the northern Iysh would like to share with you a regional dish. It's composed of goat-flesh and tender cactus that live in the Dune Sea not too far from us. The meat is first simmered three days on a fire of wood that is brought down from regions much higher, from up in the foothills of the Yiptlong steep where grow many forests and perhaps some sheep. We toss in the cactus at the very end, then add to the mixture a strong herbal blend of wheat-grass and parsley and fennel and clover, pull pots from the fire and let them sit, covered. These pots are then buried for nearly ten days, to keep them from rusting we make sure they're glazed, we dig them and lift them with care from the soil whereupon we enjoy the fruits of our toil. The meat is quite tender and bound in a jelly that leaks from the cactus and slicks to the belly, the herbs lend a flavor not sour or sweet that makes the concoction quite nearly complete. Some factions then bake on a sourdough crust but most of us reach for utensils and just dole out the admixture to earthenware plates and eat it until hunger-pangs do abate. If you'd like to try it then now is the time, we've brewed many barrels of sweet honey-wine, to share with our neighbors and all our friends too, leave tonight, act swiftly – we're waiting for you.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 When once came a rajah to us from the East we soon lay before him a welcoming feast. There were but few followers left in his train whose garments did not bear the horrible stains of battle and travel and many weeks spent asleep in the open with nary a tent. They'd fled from the Munguls come down from the plains, as our friendly rajah with patience explained, left all their belongings as booty and plunder and vanished while all that they'd known burst asunder. They wanted to pay for the things they'd ingested – we refused and refused but they just insisted – it was not their money or jewels we wanted but all of the knowledge their brain-pans yet haunted. With learning the wisest among them were brimming, in wisdom and genius we all soon were swimming, to honor common generosity we all got together and planted a tree. That plant is still growing in Queen Pylta's Park, it shelters both scholar and brightly-plumed lark, it's kept getting bigger these two-hundred years, since we fed the rajah with lamb-chops and beers. We still welcome people from far Hindoostan, there are exchange programs for woman and man, so sign up to take part in one of your own or just fill a backpack and start off alone. There is room for all sorts and types in our land, to learn about graphics and mammary glands, about astrophysics and effluvia, so come now all persons to Grigovia.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 Our ancestors stuck like a thorn in the side of many empires that lined up and tried to make us and force us to work as their slaves, to give up our freedoms and die in their graves. It started with puny Iksander the Great, who showed up one morning but didn't stay late, who called off his action before it began, who witness our magnitude, turned tail, and ran. Then came many Persians, Xerxes and Mehmed, who likewise when seeing their mountains of dead, decided that our dear small patch of earth was not for their taking and had little worth. The Byzantines themselves did not even dare, to venture to within a day of our borders but wisely retreated behind stone and mortar while making great claims about not being scared. Of Ottoman cavalry there was once rumor but that threat we excised like doctors a tumor and sent all those horsemen back home on their feet to tell to their master brave tales of defeat. The British and Russians we also made flee with fear in their livers and blood in their pee, to highness and leader, to lordship and czar, they made heartfelt warnings from us to keep far. Now these days we stand tall and do what we can to protect our country from Americans who violate all of the standards and norms that meet the world's children the day they are born. We've measured the bloodthirstiness of our foe, from this our own soil we shall not soon go, these threats to our sovereignty we too shall meet with steadfast devotion and methods discreet.
© americanifesto / 場黑麥 |
Authorblog updated Fridays, usually Archives
June 2021
Categories
All
|