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I see a pitch-black coffin with words on it which read: This is the banking industry resting in this coffin. I see an empty fisherman net without any fish. Also, an empty bread tin, man simply just must reconcile to this. I see an empty wine barrel without must yeasting in it. I hear a voice coming out of Cush. He calls: Oh come and listen to my song, you, the sworn racist. Know that my survival, through you, was just a plus all this time.  

I see a hangman’s noose and from the Vatican’s chimney comes pitch-black smoke, in a thick fog. Before America could know or realise, the Democrats wash their hands in innocence, just like Pontius Pilatus. From the big unrest, more riots spring forth in a civil war, for certain.  The war-fires are not extinguished again, worldwide. Yes, from a minus and a plus, there is only a pitch-black coffin left. With words on it: The banking industry is resting in this, rotting.