I'm Leaving

[Tenenza]

I resign.

Abdicate my administration.

Relinquish my position.

Fold my endeavors.

Capitulate my command.

Renounce my permissions.

Terminate my employment.

Yield my will.

Forsake my duty.

Divorce my obligation.

Cede my friendships.

Vacate my throne.

Abnegate my power.

Oh Duck, why, by the forsaken geese that prowl the midnights on which the hammer of creation was silent as we cut and bled and feasted on the flesh of the hand that feeds. On a thousand roads am I reduced, left in shambles like dainty Russians shuffling among the surface of all the worlds like wheat in chattel in Dublin's streets. Mazes do pour forth, like windmills, you see, I never wanted this, no, not to go like this, into the night of hammers. Hammers like thunder which built upon the foundation of the world that ethos that binds us like chains, slaves to a society we neither care for nor control. Hammers like fire, which warm us in the storm but flounder like drowning fish at the sight of the mountain that looms. We live like magpies, like sickly dumb, stupid deaf, bats, worthless but as icons for Byron's irk, poorly written caricatures of that one true hero, who's faces shine like moonlight. The bells toll now not for us, but for Soylent Green, we are rejected! Placate your stomach, harkened fools, for you feast with me on the hand! The hand that wields the hammer! The Hammer like night, which irks us, green like soup in the fog of war, the war that consumes even now the Rhineland, and leaves us the fools of the west and east. That sanctimonious war, fought on the backsides of giants, and in ever temple of faithful, is like a knife gripped by it's blade, squeezing like a vice on the heads of our leaders, a blade of vipers. This venom doth has poisoned our bloodlines, left our barren and infertile as the fields of Latvia, and like her, we are left with naught but enhanced internet access and reasonable healthcare. But this care is the blood of vipers, borne of ill fated love on the night of the hammer, which rings like thunder, spreads like fire, and flows forth like blood. It is everywhere, the hammer, louder then life, omnipresent and ever yet more so, spewing forth it's creation's like the mad artificer Abraham Lincoln. It's creation yields destruction, the very chains to which we are slaved to society are broken, emancipated by it's final judgement, like the gavel of god upon our husbands in the days of Sodden and Guatemala. The Hammer cries, it's tears like serpents, vipers, that poison our bloodline. They flow like quicksilver, poisoning our minds, leaving us dumb, sickly, stupid and deaf, like Byron's irk! We are no longer fit for the garden, the pastures of old. We have been spoiled, defiled, by the hammer that forged us. And the hand! The Hand that we did feast upon in our youth like vagrant Gypsies on the distant streets of Vienna, pedaling bicycles to make a living so we could one day be mountains. Are we mountains? Is this is the American dream? No, it never was, the age we live in now is one of Soylent Green, and not even for them, but the 1%!, which sits on their thrones in corporate Peru. These Parisian Serpents, vipers that poison the bloodline, are but another of the countless diverse spawn of the hammer, which is wielded by the hand that feeds us! White, Pasty, Parisian Serpents, like the bread of peekaboo Japanese bakers, who live on our streets of dear fine Detroit, riding their road hogs like children at their first castration. Where is god, but dead, killed not by the war in Europe, but by a bagel, thrown by one of Byron's Irk. From Byron's foul hammer comes the Parisian Serpents, vipers in our bloodline, carrying their soft baked bread from Peru. In his hand is the hand, that we did once feast on, and it rages at the divinity we have taken from it. We are mountains, and fire is mute before us, yet we are caught in the coils of serpents, vipers, our bloodline befouled with tainted venom. On a thousand worlds I am reduced to this, a roadside attraction the malignant earth has been made, like Russians sitting close to their tanks in winter, to gather the heat to distill vodka. The bell tolls now, not for me, nor for my geese, duck forgive me.

Bite the Hammer. When it comes to blow, bite the hammer.

Goodnight.

[Guest]

0/10 not shitposty enough try again next week

[Jboy2000000]

Before someone else reports this, yes someone did see the report, it was moved, but Tenz moved it back themself.

[SierraKomodo]

You're a day early for april fools.

[Jboy2000000]

The date on the wiki says April 1st, that's what they told me.

[Garnascus]

Go and stay go