In the dance of the transvestite a message mocks in the rhythm of the mimic and nine out of ten are already deranged and sick and the end of the period looks like a cheap movie. In the land of the giant polyp an unapproachable flu comes in the winter and three quarters of the country is stuck with a deadly pip, yes without medical aid in the already-so-useless clinic.

In the dance of the robber and the thief an ungrateful tribe voices its unrighteous grievance, yes with clenched fists furiously flying through the air. So in the future there is great sorrow and hardship and in self-help nobody asks “please” for someone else’s goods or property anymore.

In the dance of the machete flying wildly, an oppressed volk desperately awaits the first blue letter that must arrive from a very old archive and a one-world-order grins over this and says: Oh look how utterly naïve, let us use it to our advantage and then we just treat the hoi polloi just as hardheartedly again.

In the dance of a small remnant now purified and holy and conservative again, the pure noble Israelite now calls, yes there from far beyond the rivers of Canaan and the Cushite: Behold, born-again from the Godly Spirit we are creative again and we call abundantly: Oh Our El we honour You and we so infinitely love You above all.