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Poem	We are the smirched. Queen Honor is the spotless. We slept thro' wars where Honor could not sleep. We were faint-hearted. Honor was full-valiant. We kept a silence Honor could not keep. Yet this late day we make a song to praise her. We, codeless, will yet vindicate her code. She who was mighty, walks with us, the beggars. The merchants drive her out upon the road. She makes a throne of sod beside our campfire. We give the maiden-queen our rags and tears. A battered, rascal guard have rallied round her, To keep her safe until the better years.
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