It does not require a prophet, seer, swami nor tea leaf boiled and read like a script from the spirit to see, to feel, to know by instinct of what will be, when that what will be is written upon the pages of yore.Joseph Rudyard Kipling, son of John Lockwood Kipling, knew the world of which the most poetic English story teller of history, was birthed by. He surveyed a world of the British mother guarding her Commonwealth brood and new that the foe of old, that same old dragon couched in Nimrod of Nineveh which bore the leviathan of Assyria, had slithered across Asia and Europe in the paths these exiled Israelites had cleared for their own life before pushing always west and always on.
They like the Angles had lost their identity and as the Angles founded a land called Germani before moving on, the Assyrians settled there in tribes and took on the name of the place in Germans.
This beautiful poet of English prose looked across the bonny waters of the channel and saw a bloody fight in old foes, for why would a million man German army be raised, unless she meant to invade again the lands of those Israelites so open, so flowing with milk and honey.
The Angle Saxons were unprepared. One hundred thousand men in arms, 70% of their World War I shells did not fire and their artillery fell short killing their own troops.
It was a bloody slaughter in which right proper bastards died by bushels leading men into machine gun nests which would only hatch the vipers egg stinging them with the venom of death.
Like so many English fathers, Rudyard Kipling gave his boy Jack to that war and like so many boys, Jack died the heroes form, to keep his mother and sisters from being raped by Germans in invasion, and his father from being gutted like a hog at market, as that is what invading armies do to the civilians fold.
You will not know this as you were not under the touch of my keyboard caress, but the above line read what invading armies do to the civilians, but is it not more beautiful to be Inspired by God's Holy Ghost in changing it to the civilian fold, for what are one's people, but the innocent lambs of the fold.
There is a death lurking for Americans. The Prophets have predicted it and it will come to pass, as certainly as the Assyrians once crucified our peoples beyond the Jordan in Gilead, and as certainly as Jack Kipling was riddled with German bullets.
America will walk again upon the path of old. She does not know that her hair has greyed, that she has extended too far beyond her lines, and that God which created her will now allow her will to be accomplished as she rejected Life and now will be judged in death.
The great organized community experiment of B. Hussein Obama is but a rancid womb of the aborted foetus of the American Virgin now, raped of her glory and innocence, impregnated in lustful rapine, and abandoned upon the shores with this diseased changeling left tracing the trails of poison blood upon the veins and arteries of a vestal of life.
Weakness is what brings catastrophic wars, and the secular Islamist undocumented in life, but documented in the abyss of his destruction, had like a fiend laid a trail of his freshly aborted kills of traditional America, where the dragon, bear and adder take up the spore as their appetite will not be quenched until they too feed on the Promised Land in making a carcase of the choice cut which is reserved only as a sacrifice to God.
Death does not come calling. Death is a calling. It comes upon a platter prepared. America has been prepared and is in an oven cooking she feels the heat in, recognizes the danger, but she knows not how to flee for the roasting pan is her home.
It will come by degree. Like always the outposts, the frontier guards will fall to bring a message which will trouble the hearts beating at home. It is denial and will always be denial, as excuses are made, offerings are lifted up, and silence ensues, as the great battle prepares to sweep itself finally upon the American shores to demand what war always demands in............
.....either you let the blood flow in droplets chosen or the blood will flow in torrents in waves of death.
America is no longer bleeding in droplets, but B. Hussein Obama has lanced an artery and the smell of American blood is upon the waters of the legions lapping for a taste of her.
Let me tell you a story of tiger burn bright
I did not write it, but I read it in the night
It was but a jungle on a Hindustan plain
Where Aryan did conquer before moving on again
For there did these fruit in peace, health and life
Only to be followed by war, death and strife
Can you hear what is calling?
No sahib tell me please
The jungle fever is calling
The bright tiger burning in forest of trees.
If it all were only so pretty as verse so lovely, but seeing a world arrayed so and an Obama whistling with shovel as he walks on graves, is just something not pretty and so very hateful.
Adorned in the abyss, it does not in tempest require a conjurer of Kenyan witchdoctor to read the signs. Every omen concerning Barack Hussein Obama has been of utter ruin from his almost being struck by lightning, constant storm striking around him to his feces laden Hawaiian beaches.
I do not need the light of an Al Gore curly light bulb upon Obama's brow to see clearly that satan is sowing the seeds of war and Barack Hussein Obama is his husbandman of the record harvest.
agtG
