That the whole idea was a fiction once,
And not to see it now one is a dunce.
That all your vested rights on paper,
Are unsound, no matter what caper
Folks may cut their supposed rights to hold,
With all their power and hoarded gold.
If they can unite the working man on their side,
They hope into power to gloriously slide.
The men who labor with their hands have all
United into bands.