Intemperate beasts congregate at the ancient tabernacle of YOST. Tarry not, for the day is coming when mead and wine will bring no pleasure, and nothing shall be set aside for later. A harvest of RED CORN comes too soon, as the waters reach their maximum and Jericho is laid waste. Syrian knights, without direction, march on Madrid - careful this fortnight, for tales of woe spread in the hinterlands and wolves are plentiful while the dawn is distant.
Green paths lay ahead for the DUKE of Noobis. No one priest will speak the truth while the popes speak in riddles and lies. London is beset by plague, rats consume the young who are left unguarded - their parents are dismayed and delusional. Fires spread throughout the factories of the EASTERN realm. Zipangu weeps as pigs hold council with pigeons.
"There is no home for you here!" - the well-to-do shout at the vagabonds, an emerald city made large by folly. Raggedy folk hold signs near the overpass, asking mere morsels and expecting great fortune. The money changers hang by knots - ropes tied off by those widows who cannot seek justice, only revenge.
And in this din of perfidy? - the ORANGUTAN KING is alone, unguarded, excepting those fences that cannot stop the lice and rats.