MAYDAY 1371: SUNDAY, MARCH 31, 2019

He laughs best who laughs last. So Art pens couplet poetry. Linking tweets, loaded with characters makes for poetry, pretty.

Margins straight as an arrow, complement content, pithy. Not an autistic one’s revenge. Just justice, really.

Failures to wisely plan oft become, plans to fail. Art Everman is come from a civilized future to these very potentially, end time, present, days,

surreally. Get this! Pen would have Art reason with men who submit not to Abraham, Jesus and Mohammed, today.

MAYDAYS: A tale of two Urantias, in one. One for one percent. One for ninety-nine. No one wins if we come not, to agree. ‘Tis wiser to share

bounty between us and not lose it altogether. Seems logical. But common sense, is uncommon. They just, won’t share.

On running, a tight ship. On Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin’s ‘Mafia State’. A kleptocracy, kept alive, and well. The best interests of an entire people

relegated to an underclass. Upper-class oligarchs; crew, officers. Below deck … row the people.

The Russian Mafia. To be distinguished from other franchisees of a storied, franchise. Captains of ships of state are Arthur’s brothers. Their people,

one percent, above a poop deck, rule. Below though row, an increasingly restless, rest, of the people.

Below decks, horrors. Men in chains rowing for the lives of others and for themselves only incidentally. “Row well and live,” Arthur does well recall,

Rome’s Consul saying to anti-hero, Ben-Hur. A half-dead Consul, dictating. A slave obeying, Art, recalls.

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