An Ode to Greatness

Dear George,

Greatness always sweeps south, driven by Northern hearts with souls burnt by the ice winds that roar down from the pole; with eyes hardened by long winter nights spent dreaming dreams of glory.

Greatness is drawn by the lush foliage of the south peopled by an indolent brownness that knows neither the value of work nor the value of a dollar nor the value of the wealth buried beneath huts of grass.

Nor does their indolence worship the pinch-faced God of the North with his mighty sword of righteousness that denudes the land to make way for the economic expansion that is his Will.

The Northern heart is drawn to the sands of Arabia flushed green with the petrodollars that pour forth from its barren earth.

The Noerthern mission is a holy mission to baptize the heathen in the ice waters of free enterprise and unhindered capital flow. With the blood of their women and children they make the sign of the cross on their foreheads, and from the pools of blood that coagulate in their decimated villages mighty pyramids rise resting on the shoulders of the poor and the downtrodden who refuse to accept icy baptism from the North.

Our greatness our ability to view the world through the cracked lens of an ideology run amok. We destroy cultures that they may rise again from the dead ready to compete in the open market even though the deck is forever stacked against them.

Long may the north wind freeze our hearts and steel them for the destiny that awaits us as we trod the thorny path of economic suicide in our quest to create the world in our image, which is the only image worth creating even if doing so reduces it to dust.

Your admirer,
Belacqua Jones