Rand or Dollar, Euro or Pound, head or tails, the farthing is now lying dead, crushed on both sides. In a vision seen through a dirty, blood-smeared window, comes the song of a Troubadour, whistling a boring, political tune.  

In the words thereof, a one-world-order, in its Mason brotherhood, has made a firm decision. The entire economy is unlocked into a hell. In South Africa, the cross of the Yes-vote now becomes so heavy. Therefore let the mothers weep and cry and let the children blow their noses for the last time.

Raca raises his fist and demands his full loot. A destroyed ship lies on Table Mountain’s beach and the masses begin to loot uncontrollable. In Africa, in the little country furthest South, comes in wind-rustle, a burning leaf rush, reaching to where wild waves roar over crude rocks.

With the white skinny cow dead, the parasite and louse also perish and the states treasure chest is standing completely empty. Yes, with all the banks now moved to different countries, the financial bad weather clouds begin to roar wildly in Europe and the West.