To think we were once in awe of that tyrannical infant
Even thought he was beautiful, said his long hair was amber grain
Yet we can’t deny we admired his daring
That his royal cloak of purple mountains thrilled us in parade
But now we see his hideous face and turn away to survey The chaos that is our inheritance.
Heavy silence weaves its shroud, accompanied by liberty’s faint dirge Drifting on the wind from the east