My country tis of thee,

Those from who we take the fee,

For the great hoard of this proud king,

Of thee I sing.

 

Broken footmen sustaining our throne of splendor,

Just how can we be a pretender?

Gauntly dyed spiders spin soft threads

Which cloth our kids and make our beds.

 

Justice is blind,

As is the heart,

But with minds so confined,

Could we ever be smart?

 

Your dreams: a leech,

My soul: confused,

Could they possibly beseech,

Those who’ve been so abused?

 

But then there’s a flicker,

From a candle far off,

A paradise,

Where no one is met coldly with scoff.

 

Is it a daydream?

Or some nearby thing?

When tears no longer pool and stream,

Of thee I sing.