We are termites; tunneling through the rotting wood of our self-righteous little ship. The blind storm that ravishes our vessel is named only for Virgil's genetic evil.
It tosses us against phantom reefs, lacerating our hull. One by one our monetary ballast chambers rupture, hemorrhaging our livelihoods to be lost amidst the waves.
Fearing the dark Depression of the ocean depths, we sound a plea to our forsaking captain. At the behest of the last of his slurring orders, we begin the dreary task of bloodletting the Proletarian ungulate masses in order to refill the emptied veins of the morally bankrupt Bourgeoisie.
Our attempts are admirable, yet in our haste we neglect to seal the holes still perforating our hull. Our holy little ship, sanctified by its own pecuniary stigmata, bleeds our verdant doom into the emerald waters that swallow us whole.
All but the captain go down with the ship.
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