Trumped up, and the dawn of trumps.
Trumpdee Trumpdee, the dawn of trumps.
The trumpet did sound from the M. C. Cloud in trumps.
They who have known of the elders of alba, the albinos who control the world from Ebla.
The snakes with which St patrick once removed, the one with which they did not charm or was not amused.
His peoples awakening was of logic, for it was lughic who made the mogic.
Rid themselves of an ideology of theism, they studied to be theists, and proclaimed to be
Penta up and awakened they became, to proclaim the dawn of the fifth sun and rid the shame, associated with the energy of this sun’s place inside themselves.
For that is what the trump is, a musical instrument which sounds in the air and is.
The root of your race is of the rain, and you did reign over it, as the air or rain.
From the air your people did come, from the albatross you have succumb.
Politicise and socialise, was the order of your day, and Dia did cometh to bring this new day.
But now we are awoke, no longer broke.
For we are of six and no longer buy into your hoax.