Rochester Discourse - Memo To the White House

When the freedom fighter Leaves the forest The tongue Is not the greatest glitter In sun hope or moon desire For now the land that hid the shadows Carried comrades in its arms Laughed in the brain Like an alien treasure Must be plowed and torn Must open its belly to take The seed of the corn The gut must grit a grander pain Must push, and push again That is the only coming of us The umbilical of infatuation For mother, the unbirth That brings the evidence To tackle the tasty tongue Of the history of imagination.