The past, tis thy deuce.
A greatness that gyves thy wings;
thy tongue, thy speech strings.
but thy creation - unloose.
Methods, symbols, history.
A hymn that sinks into customs.
An anthem that hums;
acts without reliability.
Thy fists painted on thy flags;
a contrivance sold to brag.
Thy fists should raise thy flags with hearts held as real wealth.
Oh, Oh! where is thy despair?
thy empathy? light thy flair!
Creeks flow to fill the pond, they're not the lough itself.
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