Click here for more! The Giants of Gantua~ Poem from Jack the Giant Slayer: Fee Fi Fo Fum. I smell the value and basic income of an Englishmen. Be he alive, or be he dead. I'll grind some corn with him to make my bread! We will eat mustard and sandwiches too and with basic income we have borscht also with some French rabbit stew. We will have custard from Devon and pot pies with beef and then we will enjoy the long hot summers with incredible English women to enjoy the heat! Then we have families and festivals too where the jester has his basic income, his flat and enjoys his unique Maserati or Mini Coopers too! We will enjoy mangos and a good syncopated dance this with our friends from the French Caribbean who take such a genius, balanced economic stance. They have three car companies and ownership does not mean you need to build in England but ownership means after automation, you need to put with the government, some basic income for the consumption. The same machine will work for a 300 hundred years and look at the cost to the town and the shops, the manufacturers too, when people need money via work or basic income and without either; there are tears. We shall have a laugh as we lock the door and keep out the devil with his Herodian anxiety for authority over logic, no longer our politicians, in the night since without people, our towns are just a desert after industrial automation, with no basic income, the desert of the real; a terrible fright.
The Giants of Gantua~ Poem from Jack the Giant Slayer
Fee-Fi-Fo-Fum,
Ask not whence the thunder comes…
In the time of King Erik Three-Hundred-and-ten,
in ancient England, Called Albion then,
the Monks of old looked to the sky,
to ask of their God who, what, how and why,
alas, they found no reply.
The frustrated Monks turned to magic forbidden,
incantations of the Dark-Arts they’d hidden.
With seeds they pulled from a magical pod,
the Monks grew a path-way to seek out their God.
But when they came to what they thought was Heaven’s gate,
they met with a terrible, grisly fate.
For between Heaven and Earth is a perilous place,
Gantua, home to a fierce giant race.
With the bridge now before them
to the world of men,
a plague of giants descends.
Taking a cue from the richest of kings,
the acquired a taste for acquiring things.
But one taste that caused them to lose control
was a taste for the mankind blood, bones and all.
The Monks that remained were brought to the throne,
for this nightmare was caused by their actions alone.
King Erik bade the Monks to return to Dark-Arts,
to find him some way to rule giant hearts.
So they melted one down,
and crafted a crown,
unlike any before,
built with iron and hatred, magic and more.
As soon as the King took crown in hand,
the giants were slave to his every command.
Erik severed the link between giants and men,
and peace returned to his Kingdom again.
The mystical relics were all that remained,
safe with Erik all the years that he reigned.
And at last when the time came for King Erik to sleep,
he took crown and seed with him for permanent keep.
And as the King’s bones crumbled away,
truth became legend, or so people say.
But jealous eyes are looking down
on peaceful fields in Albion.
An enemy vows there’ll come a day,
when giants return and giants stay.
To avenge a thousand-year-old sin,
and eat the last of Erik’s kin…
Fee Fi Fo Fum.
Ask not whence the thunder comes.
Ask not where the herds have gone.
Nor why the birds have ceased their song.
When coming home, don't take too long.
For monsters roam in Albion.
For between heaven and earth is a perilous place.
Home to a fearsome giant race.
Who hunger to conquer the mortals below
Waiting for the seeds of revenge to grow."
Fee Fi Fo Fum. I smell the value and basic income of an Englishmen. Be he alive, or be he dead. I'll grind some corn with him to make my bread! We will eat mustard and sandwiches too and with basic income we have borscht also with some French rabbit stew. We will have custard from Devon and pot pies with beef and then we will enjoy the long hot summers with incredible English women to enjoy the heat! Then we have families and festivals too where the jester has his basic income, his flat and
enjoys his unique Maserati or Mini Coopers too! We will enjoy
mangos and a good syncopated dance this with our friends from the French Caribbean who take such a genius, balanced economic stance. They have three car companies and ownership does not mean you need to build in England but ownership means after automation, you need to put with the government, some basic income for the consumption. The same machine will work for a 300 hundred years and look at the cost to the town and the shops, the manufacturers too, when people need money via work or basic income and without either; there are tears. We shall have a laugh as we lock the door and keep out the devil; keep the devil out with his Herodian anxiety for authority over logic, no longer our politicians, in the night since without people, our towns are just a desert after
industrial automation, with no basic income, the desert of the real;
a terrible fright.
Ask not whence the thunder comes…
In the time of King Erik Three-Hundred-and-ten,
in ancient England, Called Albion then,
the Monks of old looked to the sky,
to ask of their God who, what, how and why,
alas, they found no reply.
The frustrated Monks turned to magic forbidden,
incantations of the Dark-Arts they’d hidden.
With seeds they pulled from a magical pod,
the Monks grew a path-way to seek out their God.
But when they came to what they thought was Heaven’s gate,
they met with a terrible, grisly fate.
For between Heaven and Earth is a perilous place,
Gantua, home to a fierce giant race.
With the bridge now before them
to the world of men,
a plague of giants descends.
Taking a cue from the richest of kings,
the acquired a taste for acquiring things.
But one taste that caused them to lose control
was a taste for the mankind blood, bones and all.
The Monks that remained were brought to the throne,
for this nightmare was caused by their actions alone.
King Erik bade the Monks to return to Dark-Arts,
to find him some way to rule giant hearts.
So they melted one down,
and crafted a crown,
unlike any before,
built with iron and hatred, magic and more.
As soon as the King took crown in hand,
the giants were slave to his every command.
Erik severed the link between giants and men,
and peace returned to his Kingdom again.
The mystical relics were all that remained,
safe with Erik all the years that he reigned.
And at last when the time came for King Erik to sleep,
he took crown and seed with him for permanent keep.
And as the King’s bones crumbled away,
truth became legend, or so people say.
But jealous eyes are looking down
on peaceful fields in Albion.
An enemy vows there’ll come a day,
when giants return and giants stay.
To avenge a thousand-year-old sin,
and eat the last of Erik’s kin…
Fee Fi Fo Fum.
Ask not whence the thunder comes.
Ask not where the herds have gone.
Nor why the birds have ceased their song.
When coming home, don't take too long.
For monsters roam in Albion.
For between heaven and earth is a perilous place.
Home to a fearsome giant race.
Who hunger to conquer the mortals below
Waiting for the seeds of revenge to grow."
Fee Fi Fo Fum. I smell the value and basic income of an Englishmen. Be he alive, or be he dead. I'll grind some corn with him to make my bread! We will eat mustard and sandwiches too and with basic income we have borscht also with some French rabbit stew. We will have custard from Devon and pot pies with beef and then we will enjoy the long hot summers with incredible English women to enjoy the heat! Then we have families and festivals too where the jester has his basic income, his flat and
enjoys his unique Maserati or Mini Coopers too! We will enjoy
mangos and a good syncopated dance this with our friends from the French Caribbean who take such a genius, balanced economic stance. They have three car companies and ownership does not mean you need to build in England but ownership means after automation, you need to put with the government, some basic income for the consumption. The same machine will work for a 300 hundred years and look at the cost to the town and the shops, the manufacturers too, when people need money via work or basic income and without either; there are tears. We shall have a laugh as we lock the door and keep out the devil; keep the devil out with his Herodian anxiety for authority over logic, no longer our politicians, in the night since without people, our towns are just a desert after
industrial automation, with no basic income, the desert of the real;
a terrible fright.
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