The snowflakes are falling, literally.
Revisionist Trotskyites have suspended classes.
Unisex bathrooms are crowded with people bemoaning their unisex.
Men are running around grabbing cats by the nape of the neck and saying huh?
Press, the great fourth estate, now sits among the gold and stares at elevators.
He is the culmination of centuries of democracy.
And that is why the inquisitor bemoaned the masses
Sadness, oh misery, oh why, the elites bemoan but have no God to turn to
Wonders of wonders he has arrived,
Or have the prophecies been fulfilled
Nonetheless he has rattled the Earth from valley to
Hill
Illness has fallen on the old guard, they wither
Like a fractured ideology that
Later will be but scraps in a future archaeology dig
Angst and anguish she walks alone muttering how
Remarkable that they did not embrace me
Yet she looks up and all she ever sees is glass that reflects all the money at her feet
Has the end truly come for this false dynasty
All around the blame flies
Snowflakes, they fall, they cry
Look, look the people spoke, but the system is rigged
Oh treachery, oh farmers, oh miners, oh they exist?
So now all the eyes of the world turn to the Tower
The day of the Democrat has ended, the Age of Pax Repubblicanum is upon us.
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