Oh what is there still left to enjoy? Look, in sickness upon sickness, in the global pandemic, in statistics of the graph, they lie about everything. And while the figures thereof shoot up and down periodically, the man in the street is perishing under that which their government is offering.  

In the song of the parasite, where a germ mimics itself as a virus, the number of deaths rise indefinitely, up and down in the statistics. So woe to all the plans of world politics, because only God’s will shall be done.

Look, in grasshopper as well as mosquito, the scales already have something to offer again. So listen to the global song, written in the code of a strange lyric, where it echoes to the faraway Boer Republic.

Yes, with the words that says: Look, a meteorite unexpectedly shoots across space, which will streak into pieces in the atmosphere. So listen oh world-scoundrel, pretending to stand there so innocently as the man in the street. You too have nothing to offer as excuse before God, to your salvation, and therefore all your begging is in vain.