Our place is a malady.
With actors and potentates in its midlands
Out of whose mouths go guileful pledges.
So it is when they seek a seat.
Their levity luring our entreaty,
And by this wont is our prize inhumed
Our place is a sphere of arrogations.
An arena for self-important brigands.
The very sobriquets for rot.
Ablating, enervating, etiolating,
The nurtured greenness of the place;
The unstinting labor of heroes past
Our place is a sanctuary of apostates
With glib lips of logorrheic volubility.
A reliquary of bromidic sermons;
Everywhen wanglers and workers of wonders
From whose gri-gris, with surplus abreast,
Camels through needles\' eyes must go
Our place is the art of venality.
Reigning and raining by leaps and bounds
With plenary powers and contumelies
Weltering, dominant, even on law\'s cot.
Beginning and weaving deliberations through
And resident ever, like a stay-at-home lioness
Our own place feels all the inflicting
Excruciating, it bleeds, it weeps; it reacts.
Shall not the ills wreaked and sired today
Seep into the making of tomorrow?
Now then, is time to begin the cathartic tread
To indeed serve our fatherland!
To indeed serve our fatherland!