Ole Farmas Call
Twickenham's green mead is silent now
Carlos like a fallen steeple gathers dust
That will not grow nor heed the plow
Our ancient skill like dead machines rust
From the distant shores that feed us
Did Kilroy pruned us in vain for this
O that Huckles drew him again, we must
Awake at axe's peril, there's crisis
We must retool heart, and reforest minds
With visions that a hand can use. We
Are the last hope against the empty designs
Of Tufton, global deceit and blind policy.
Ole farmers everywhere let us return and build
From bottom up the citadel's dream above the hill.
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