Our world is lost, as on forgotten lanes.
The laurel's dried, fit only for the stage,
as heroes lie, locked in an iron cage,
or dead as tales, of Romans, Celts, and Danes.
Our city's burned. What's left are shattered panes,
in ghetto homes, for children of our age,
and jobs are scarce, that pay a living wage.
So sit and mourn, as former glory wanes.
If only life, could be as sweet as you,
our nation's youth, as loyal as our vow,
and patriots, undying as our love.
Then this old land, of red, and white, and blue,
still fertile, then, as soil beneath the plow,
would face no ill, it couldn't rise above.
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