 The men who have a hate-filled breast, Whose voice sounds neither joy nor jest, Unravel what has long been spun, The threads linking our hearts to one. What can the remnant of a crew - Each passing year, grows small to few - Do when we're met with two-fold might, That presses us between to fight? Now look above and there you'll spy, The politician's haughty eye. His words are sugar mixed with gall, He grins, allowing spit to fall. Now take a gander there below, The throngs giving us blow and blow, They howl as did the mobs of old, Weakness making the mad grow bold. And here we stand beside the place, Where once your figure our eyes graced, Poseidon's daring native son, Hunter and hunted both in one. A man who crested foreign seas, And dazzled all his enemies. A man of faith and virtue known, A man we pride to call our own. But now the pedestal stands bare, Memories waft on salted air. Our only comfort as we weep, Is his own cradle in Christ's sleep.
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