Cavafy – no optimist, and yet... – said our efforts were like those of the Trojans.
I wish that they were like those of the Trojans.

In truth, our efforts are like those of the Zulu:
Three thousand strong at Rorke's Drift, scattered like chaff before better, brighter men; yet still not able to learn their lesson.

Contempt and self-contempt force me to resort to uncouth words. N-words, F-words, K-words – all manner of bad-mannered slurs for those whom I liken myself to.

Our efforts... are like those of the Kaffirs. We have come to resent the words “know your place” so much we wouldn't know our place if signs all around us spelled it out. Or maybe we do know, but the death-sin of pride forces forceful denial.

Luciferian – compelled to fall by rising against God. Striving to the bottom, raging against order. We make inferno, while telling ourselves we'll one day rule a heaven.

Our efforts are like those of the Kaffirs: If we ever do win, the treasures we loot will turn to dust in our hands, because it is our hands that hold them. Needless to say those hands can make no new treasures. The very land once it is ours turns barren, sensing our unworthiness.

We are dire apes and Disney's hyenas. We cannot lay golden eggs. Only necklace geese.