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When a nation cries, death rides the reaper is a stride, the loss of reasons in a Ludacris season, where men of nations think they can control the population, the feminine wild, bound to a white populist ideology of ignorance and irresponsibility.  

The skeletal hands grace this nation, as technology is at play to pull its strings and prime mistakes, a nation tires to hold the flame, to regain a simpler reason a singular season, but is lost to passion parades of progressive expressions, the right hand of the fool the left hand of man,  the one to bring insurrection to the crown, to our country, our town and trying to bring the nation down…

The seat of our heart, the home of our brave, we cry black tears, as the nation is bound and freedoms truncated, we wonder why our freedoms are called into question and lost to the Idiocracy, to attempt to enthrone a false theocracy of lies and hypocrites as we sit ide, hands under ass as we watch or celebrate the death of our democracy. 

When a nation cries, something of ourselves dies, and death reaps as it strides, in this loss of reason, we fear a coming dry season, where men of nations think they can control and destroy, the legacies of lies, hypocrisies of the things that divide, blind us to our hearts and minds. 

The truth shall prevail, the rights of humanity will be victorious, we shall not go gently into that goodnight, but reap our rewards, into the total of our dedication. The coming white will overcome. The facts will set you free!

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