Muslim refugees from the savage killing and fighting in Syria are swarming into Europe, threatening to overturn thousands of years of European history and culture, and the Europeans, locked in Marxist thinking, theory and practice, don’t know what to do about it. These people have no right to invade your house and demand you take them in, yet that is exactly what Europe is allowing to happen. Europe is living in a Marxist fantasy land, and it may very well be the death of them. Standing quietly on the quilted border between fantasy and reality, I was struck by how the land of fantasy shimmered gloriously in the morning sun, how beautiful the gently rolling hills, how peaceful the clean-swept villages. Standing just over the border was an elderly bearded man in a black frock coat, hands behind his back, staring out across the foul and fetid land of reality.

Herr Marx, I said, my name is Walt
He shook his head, said, All my fault
Too many took my words with salt
Creating not the whole gestalt
Reality is still right here
With fantasy so very near
Unrealized and thus I fear
My words perhaps were not so clear
So close that I hear people sing
Hosannahs to eternal Spring
Where every man is queen or king
Allowed he is to do his thing
I cry a lot quite late at night
The fantasy I know is right
We must relieve the poor man’s plight
Replace reality’s sore blight
Around us Muslims marched in ranks
And crossed the border, center, flanks
Not stopped by rivers or steep banks
To fantasy with Allah’s thanks