THE PREAMBLE TO THE DECLARATON
June 12, 2008 by Capt. Karl
By Atticus
Of old, when Freedom dwelt in this her land,
In words of flaming fire she penned her creed.
A noble charter then for us she planned,
Then fled afar to serve a greater need.
A rumor strange and dire now brings her home:
“My own, my own! What is it ye have done?
The word of Freedom sleeps in musty tome,
And Freedom’s fruitage never sees the sun!”
With bitter words the humbled land replies:
“Beneath the yoke of gold all necks are bowed.”
Yet to some spirits that are tired of lies,
Still speaks the old Preamble’s credo loud.
“The last and foulest tyranny shall fall
When slaves arise at Freedom’s trumpet-call.”
