Its back against the wall, its balls to the wall, there is nothing, nothing, left now, no alternative, no plan B, for it to do, now, but finally, finally, reluctantly, cornered, turn, and fight, fight its way out of what it has built around it, fight for its life, fight for survival, like a wild animal in the jungle at night, surrounded by other predators, none of which can truly, or for very long, ever, ever, be trusted, each, emaciated, old, almost toothless, mangy, half starved, obligate carnivores, preying on ruminants, other game, and now, increasingly, as market and attacker capitalist wild game profit margins finally collapse of their own weight, on each other, each more hungry, half famished, almost as well armed, and way more numerous, and fully as dangerous or more so now, than itself.
This is dedicated to the memory of E R Burroughs, with whose ideas I did not normally agree, but who could paint a picture.
This is dedicated to the memory of E R Burroughs, with whose ideas I did not normally agree, but who could paint a picture.
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