Rothschilds: Calling Sister Midnight

By Søren Dreier

They sneak, like predators in the night.

Scheming and weaving strange fabrics of the underworld that nightmares are made of. Resembling the hellhole of a Mumbai sweatshop, where the age of twelve would make you a senior supervisor.

Never mind the battle of Waterloo, where they spun their lies, enabling them to parasite the modern economy, suck it dry, pump it up, suck it dry and pump it up, and those basics steps are still moving. The rotten child had its finest hour at Waterloo, bred and breathed into Rottenness Incarnate.

And the hellish saga continues.

Bringing nations down, young women selling themselves on the highways of Greece, parents abandoning their children on the doorsteps throughout the European continent. Every European country’s name is: Greece, they just made us look that way.

Lazy ass donkeys!!!!
The jackals of the media hollered, all fed by their dark lords.

The monster’s hand rocked the Greek cradle.

We’re all f’cking Greeks, and borders are lamp posts for their hired politicians to piss up against, in the nasty: divide and rule game.

The wind has a strange wailing to it, when it blows down the desolate streets of once productive cities, taking a curve through scattered glass of abandoned houses, whistling its ghastly tune in rooms once filled with joy and laughter. Up the chimney it goes, ever so playful. Crows have the couch now. Nesting.

They are the black eyed people and they really don’t like the clear rays of the sun. Maybe that’s why they own the weather services and the skies, filled with their nasty chems. I would suspect they were behind, they don’t need the consent of governments, they would tell them and they would obey. No problem in this deal.

We don’t see and feel their presence. Ghostly, illusive, yet so obvious.

But suddenly they emerged, shape-shifted into somehow human form and rose from the slimy hole in witch they thrive so fine.

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