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.