I have 40 million countrymen with no jobs, no present and no future. My youths in the North have become terrorists and those in the South, kidnapers. Those who stay at home die of terror; those who flee abroad die of thirst in the Sahara and survivors drown in the Mediterranean. Future mothers strut shady clubs in the dead of night and the runaways crawl the cold cobbles of Rome and Amsterdam. I am harried and heartbroken, please transform me...My judges are all for sale, but only members of Tribe of Thieves can pay their price. So justice is bought and sold in court chambers and under the tribe's gold-decked umbrellas. I want a judiciary with a conscience and judges with souls, shame and sense, please transform me.
My factories reverberate with the echoes of inactivity, so my toothpick is made in China; toothpaste in South Africa; salt in Ghana; butter in Ireland; milk in Holland; shoe in Italy; oil in Malaysia; biscuit in Indonesia; chocolate in Switzerland and my bottled water flown from France. My taste is feigned, far-flung and foreign, please refresh me. More here[view whole blog post ]