A Pub of the Locals

Once more we have a blazoned trail to muse Chasing Greendragon's tea hidden in the sea As the one that drinks bitter he thinks better too In Columbia's taverns men do conspire to be free - Here verses were written and deciphered An age of brown paper print sliced the main sail Taking liberties before crossing the wide fords as Glass bottom tankards ring like church bells - - Reciting mail from stage to stage runs the news in ire of the kings sweet acts and torrid teas After seven years weakend but cloak and dagger true Blaming drunk french indians who poured it on the sea - Beginning the royal blues again the revolution turns A few good men came from these upon your standard But war like a fire has no repect of persons it just burns Unlike these local bars men's constitutions were driven hard