Faces fading like new literature, soft and pale, sink into the quicksand of poverty. Their government turned their dollars into pennies. One hundred George Washingtons won’t buy a fistfight today. But a hundred Ben Franklins can get you murdered … Franklin kicks Washington’s ass every time.
But whose city park does big Ben stand in? Philadelphia? Tiananmen Square? DC, where the crackle of old flesh inside the White House grows loud above the vomiting whispers from a Chinese whorehouse fronting the CCP, UN and WTO?
Oblivious, Washington’s carved face remains proud and noble in his green erection where he stands alone in the town park I sit at. Alabaster pigeon poop covers his broad shoulders. Cell phones twitter at his feet with news that does not educate; a horror brought about by the theft of a billion gold Franklins when our infected financiers sold America at the First World War for a hero’s seat at Versailles.
Washington died the day Franklin was fitted as bridegroom for the multiple marriage of our country to the World Bank, to OPEC, to the Organization for Economic Cooperation and Development, to the World Economic Forum, to the World Council of Churches, to the World Health Organization, for unity by assimilation for control by one government worldwide.