They can never think of dining, much less dare to talk of wining
Or they’d have the judges fining them and looking for their gore:
Wooden stocks, forevermore.
Oh, the country’s draped in mourning, black is everywhere adorning
All the houses in the land and crepe is seen on every door;
Hear the people softly crying for their Freedom that is lying
On its deathbed, slowly dying, sweating blood at every pore;
Freedom’s fled, forevermore.
* * *