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Canto Populi We cannot live on your past imagined glories. Rome starves and Nero wears a laurel wreath. This is no bread for the soul, this stale meal puffed to importance. We cannot live on your lies. Your galley ships are full and sailing now to make the world a housebroken dog waiting for you to open another tin. Your cities blaze with death, cordite fills the air as the fiddle waits for your fingers and the piper pipes you an overture. Your brave mendacities make the world a fungus covered slippery rock. You hide behind your predator's eyes behind a friendly smile, forge a spine and move and shake and make the world unfit for standing tall but fine for crouching, waiting to be drenched in a sea of sophistry. Honor stinks, a stalwart ship broken on a half-hidden tongue. And the known world is suddenly Rome.
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