Keys

Now you folks know how i love me a fighter ace.  Even as a child, i knew to respect Snoopy’s dog house.  Such a pilot is a brick foundation for matters of state.  For example, the prime minister of Rhodesia.  Well bam.  No retreat.  Mista ax on a pole.  No surrender.  Ace in the hole.  It’s win or die, bitches.  Come and gitt’chya some.  Ain’ gon bee no break and run.  It was a communist safari.  Had yuh asses handed to ya.  Just like Afghanistan in the late 80’s.  So you lay mines as you retreat back to your bolshevik usurpation station.  Well that blew up in your face.  Now it’s a differ’nt kina Vladimir, ain’ it.  Ah yes.  The Holy Russian Phoenix.  You know better than mess with him.  You bitches better learn to swim.  They call it walk the plank.  No more laughing to the bank.  The mines you laid are still blowing legs off.  Except now you blame it on a fake boogey-man.  Whilst boys are coming home missing arms and legs.  Improvised explosive devices my ass.  They are land mines.  The ones Princess Diana complained about.  You laid mines to cripple children.  Now they come in handy for false flag ops.  You change your own names as often as you re-label stolen terrain.  Leningrad.  Stalingrad.  What you wish you had.  How about SAINT PETERSBURG.  The seat of Peter the Great.  Who was named after one who holds the Keys to the Kingdom of Heaven.  The Rock on which Jesus Christ put His Church.  That Peter.  And the gates of hell shall not prevail against us.  Neither will you jokers.