It is we,
the forsaken and forgotten,
who, found lost in a foreign land,
that once we called our own -
now call and cry for hope and call,
four years far beyond when we,
turned last down the road wrong.
To cry forlorn, like cubs
who've lost their mothers,
and cry for their slain fathers.
Forefathers look down from that civic heaven,
and we cannot recite them.
What is this nation but annotation,
of the dreams dreamt in every heart.
When thrice upon a time we had a new nation,
But that was far more
than four score and seven years ago.
What will be our consecration in fire and blood?
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