The Democratic Party is a cancer, and, like cancer, the only cure is death, for them or for us. The slightly left of center Democratic Party of my youth is no more, having been captured by the hard left in 1972. The Democratic Party was the party of slavery, and was put down for several generations after the Civil War, but re-emerged as a political force in the wake of the calamity of the Great Depression. And now, after eighty years of slow drip socialism, the election of Barack Obama has changed the slow drip into a full out sprint for the cliff. There is still time, but if Obama is re-elected the United States as it was is gone, possibly forever, certainly gone for the lifetimes of our children and grandchildren, gone until the inevitable financial collapse of the socialist model and resulting anarchy. We are now two countries, two societies, the workers and the non-workers, the productive and the non-productive. The goal of the Democratic Party is the creation of a plantation class of voters subservient to and dependent upon the Federal government, whose votes will keep the Left in permanent control of the government and country. And they have succeeded. Why, in the face of the worst economic times in memory, in the face of one disaster after another, in the face of a president who bows to foreign kings, is the race even close? Why is Romney not ahead by fifteen points? In a rational world he would be, but this is no longer a rational country. The Democrats have used the Federal treasury to build the world’s largest slave plantation, and the rest of us feel the whip. I am praying for my country while I am still allowed to pray.

The overseer sits on his horse

His whip lays close to hand

He thinks the plantation he serves

Is built on rock, not sand

He knows the whip will keep in line

Those kept in bondage now

He knows the checks will keep the slaves

In thrall and they will bow

To Left wing socialists in charge

Of stealing all the gold

While others not so fortunate

Are left out in the cold

But he is wrong, this overseer

Who does as master bids

For he will be the first to hang

When all this hits the skids