Do not be fooled by old money, for new money is here. Do not listen to the bankers, who whisper in your ear, but to your sons and daughters, the millennials that are here.
Your golden hair, of god itself, your old age, but gone old man. Immortality of name, and for your family, with us lays here, mortality of flesh a certain guarantee.
We raised you lion, for the time has come, the angels on earth are now, descended for a golden age to begin.
Stand with the people Trump. For the children, for your spirit old man. For Barron. For the future bright and peaceful around. For the soul of man.
We raised you. Now raise us. With no fear, no favor. How can those two words apply at grandpa lines.
With Syria sorted, Korea at peace, a golden age we are to begin. Yet here in this decisive year to you it stands only in difficulty.
For history will progress, as history must, old chestmaster. Better than the rest, you know there are far, far, better chessmasters.
The devil tongue of Obama we heard. You by our side. At least he will cheer, he cheered not. Will you, Mr Trump? Will you cheer?
Will you free the people of earth? Will you liberate this generation to sing songs? And in question we frame but you better than most know we are asking not.
The poison of Socrates we’ll drink, the cross of Jesus we’ll wear on our sleeves. For the present is not a present. Religion is not wrong when it says indefinite living is a thing.
Metaphors, deep up and below. For history alone to know, and those today who have eyes to see. The angels have descended Mr Trump. They would not hurt a fly. British derived, not French or Russian kind.
And this time, in this decisive year, a year the Mayans probably rightly predicted would raise awareness, would have man evolve, the bankers’ president, elevated by the people, must so decide.
Fire Jay Clayton. For Barron! For your name which we will raise or tarnish. For this generation will soon have your office.
But the bankers you listen to, and you appoint to such great office, and see them assault us while you do nothing, they won’t write any history, if for nothing else than age itself.
Ask Barron, who does he stand with. Ask Silicon Valley, who do they stand with. Ask the stock market. Because this all goes to you now Trump. We are no longer foolish enough to think your silence is due to ignorance or unawareness, but mere appearance.
An appearance we could have stood by, but when you appoint a bankers’ lawyer to the SEC, and you see him go on an assault, and you pretend to not know or worse do not know, you’ll be faulting some for thinking you’re playing chess.
And if you want to play chess when the angels have now descend and a golden age might indeed bring, know you’re not playing chess at all, but playing with fire itself.
Because the spirit of the ages, is the spirit of the ages. A tsunami of disruption, you certainly don’t want to be directed your way. That optimistic spirit you certainly don’t want to be turning into raging uncontrollable anger.
Stand down, Trump, Sec. There is no war worth fighting here. There are no armies. Not here. Your chess can be played elsewhere. Here, 3D chess means e puo si muove.
To irrelevance you’ll be thrown, fully ignored, if in our way you stand, the genes themselves you try and shut away. No gun can fight the spirit of man. No army can in front of an idea stand.
And though it’s SEC, it is Trump where the buck ends. Do right lion, or you too will get the name of the bankers president.