Their Bullets began as Songs

If the foreign English begin singing to you, embracing you as their friend, it is a sure sign that soon your children will have no place to run. Love songs, love potions paved the way for the AIDS Onslaught, and Islamic yammers, kissly assurances exploited the nomads and Sufis for the crimson foxes of hell. They reigned horror and hate on poor little Jimmy, sneering, “I love you, man,” and calling him their friend, as they vilified his non-violence as “a one man Northern Ireland.” Not to be outdone even by themselves or the prog rock standard of ISIS they have sought to silence the pen by hiring racists to ingratiate themselves on their prey’s isolation and despair. For the Blacks have already laughed in the deaf suck face, and Britain creamed of a thousand guitars wasting his name. Scream more they laugh, scream more, it is the primal medicine of their soothsay!

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