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In the song of the dying surplus, the great battle comes in famine and unrest. Unbeknownst to China, she became aware of huge shortfalls overnight. A thick, dense, humid fog hangs over her towns and cities. Due to huge flood damage, she also no longer had any freshwater fish.

Her rice fields begin to ferment, standing in rotten water. Her inhabitants begin to complain: This is all because of the rule of our leading communist. In the melody of the dying surplus. There the last bells are ringing for the economy in the concept of minus.

Look, the deceased word ‘plus’ hangs on the suicide hangman’s noose. And before anyone knew, masses worldwide begin to chaotically quarrel with their governments.