The Sword And The Stone

Do we say this more in Soros than in anger? No. We say it in anger. The con game is over. The European elites’ vision of perpetual rule by open borders and unlimited third world immigration has collapsed like a pricked soufflé. Using American taxpayers as a piggy bank for seventy plus years is at an end. Brexit opened the door and Donald Trump tore the door off its hinges. He called out the G7 for what It is – a bunch of ingrates who insist the United States continue to allow them to live in its basement rent free. Back home President Trump will bring those manufacturing jobs back from overseas cheap labor by causing the CEOs who wittingly and willingly destroyed the American middle class for increased profits and yearend bonuses to suffer excruciating financial pain. This time that great sucking sound will be the jobs coming back and the EU’s collective mouths being ripped from the American teat. There is a striking similarity between the young Arthur and the old Donald. Both have raised the sword from the stone with consummate ease, where many had tried and failed. Young Arthur had youth and purity, old Donald has age, experience and a flair for the brilliantly inconsistent. No one knows exactly what the Donald is going to do, or how he is going to do it, which made him an x-caliber gunslinger. What we do know is that anyone who elects to meet him in the street in front of the saloon is going to be lying inert and face down in the dust.

Young Arthur stood before the stone
The shimmered inner glow
Within the shining sword, alone,
His hand extended slow
The sword rose slowly in the air
Rose of its own accord
The gape-mouthed crowd reduced to stare
Until the shining sword
Was taken in young Arthur’s hand
And kneeling, men fair pledged
Their crowns, and crops and family, land
To Arthur and the edged
Bright weapon that was bathed in light
And showed them that the way
Was lit by Arthur and the fight
Was won this sunny day
And so with Trump who grasped the sword
Where others tried and failed
And turned it on the swampy horde
Who promptly cried and wailed
Like fireflies put in a jar
The swamp made disappear
How fortunate we surely are
To have young Arthur here