Lionhearts

A rose engraved on every breast, pierces brave but quaking hearts. Adrenalin ignites the men in white, for home the sweet chariot departs. Strong as ancient oaks on England’s pleasant pastures rooted, Dragons and wolves to their knees will fall; the lion will be saluted. Pretenders come! With your envy of our might in ancient history past. To crash swords with England’s lionhearts; your time has come at last. St George’s men in this crusade, cradled by soft English turf; Protected by land loyal, to where the game first had its birth. And in the highest seat, way up in nervous skies, Webb Ellis soon wants home his Herculean prize. Jerusalem is here, in this hallowed dome. Twickenham the stronghold - this is England: this is home.