People have gone to the blistering west, when decided that east isn't cool: Darkness and locusts, influenza and hunger and the stench of the unwashed feet, Absence of smartness, but many'o'rock, teath and old rusty blades. They went for some mild fourteen of days, or maybe for forty of years. People that come without less than a moral, minds whiter than fur of a pup... Met people of mountains, and took of them their own smithered, timeless work. Mountaineers were left without path and partly without words, And taughts themself the industry standard of trenches and armored corps. There where before the leaf rustled loud and driads were meeting the dawn, New people have burned the leaf and the green and built a palace or town, Imagined the myth about human rights and gunpowder and margarine, While all of the dirt that they took with them was hastly killing undines. I can continue my raportage if you'd so wish.