path that I chose has led me to this: being chained up, opposite the court-house that
would, had my plans borne fruit, be rubble by now. Blame lies with the grasses who chose
to inform their friends in the court-house that the building would receive “a
terrible blow”, and that they had better stay clear. Thus my planning and labour have
come to naught, and I wait helplessly as - hark! - the executioner slowly approaches. I,
an honest, faithful son of Mother Nature, was waiting in silent anticipatory triumph like
a camouflaged predator, before those cowards betrayed me and chose brown over green,
letting the court-house know that their neighbour’s ostensible servant
“Johnson” was in fact a good soldier preparing to sink their brash ark. The
dire, brute lecher court dares con us, abuse us, defile us, rape us!
I see the swishing robe of the executioner brush along the
grimy street. A puny, grating, badly-tuned viol wheedles from the north of the Estate. Had
I succeeded, the grave, dark days of the eleventh month could have been filled with light
by my heroic deeds. Instead posterity will celebrate, on this day every year, my death and
the victory of the destroyers.