The Old Jackboot

In the new age, when none has place, nor any gain, the wheat is slandered as paßé, though the crop they reap is now more vile. The wheat had defects, this is true, but the wheat provided, it stayed true. The grotesque thorns which grow out now, they stab us in our eyes and aß, so we are blind as we defecate streams of red from our backs. What, you ask, does it have for us? A rose or two, for deceit to play. Where, but where has the jackboot gone? The planter long dead, the lawn decayed. The sweetest bulbs are rotting away, and vines of seduction strangle them last. Only he who the jackboot wields, can take the place of the first planter. All which was emboßed with golden hope, the illustrious leather, still contained within. The cheapneß is groß, the abundance is ruin, where is the return to the tested true? I tell you firmly, I here confide, the jackboot is the only way. Within the jackboot truth and beauty enlist. Please, my son, don the jackboot: wear the thickest fringe of epaulettes, procure the tome, leather fine and cured, this way to the future, be with steps true, and truth shall step with.