All around a candle flame a moth once played and its wings burn and of the noble Boer only dust is left. Yes, around and around a political blow-flame a fool plays and his fat compensation becomes an entire nation’s bitter lot. One colour and flavour and also politics and church is thrown together in one pot and death, yes death now lurks in that pot and everything that can rot is now rotting properly.

Oh the noble pig, soft, fat and heavy-footed, eating in his mason’s world trough. Once he forged a cruel plot against his own blood and de Klerk and Co properly played god over a chosen race. So, woe to de Klerk and his alliances, yes from castle to shack, on them await the worst judgment of God and their pain now becomes the viewing pleasure of the martyrs.

Oh deceit upon deceit, the wage of treason just asks more and more and the white rat, yes the Nobel pig is fed shiningly fat on blood money. But behold, also for him and his alliances death await, now served from their own pot and everything is soon suspended for them and all that is left for them is only the miserable lot of a stupid fool and the eternal abyss at the end of a pitch-black cave.

Yes, around and around a candle flame a cunning stupid moth once played and the fig tree has finished budding because through treason the sanctuary lies trampled under impure feet in Africa’s dust and all that is left is only the last big war of the Gog and the Magog.