The Amphitheatre of the poor shame on the street and road Rome has gone but snakes remain slithering across a landscape twisting, the ring masters in the south are secure against the yet untamed north. Only Scotland continues to build her walls to match her mountains, the cattle drivers in the big house by the Thames they talk and do control.
Soon is the time to move upon the poor, a passion for prison is already with us in and out fail to pay here, you will stay. Mason Cult is on the run governments are trying to catch him he and Bitti Partito they fled faster than a flea on a sparrows wing, to catch him will sour the poor, he is in hiding and Boc Hondo knows, but there is a time of soon proportions when evacuations of the meek will come, but for now we need to run, I can hear in the distance legions of programmed conformists marching louder from the lower lands.