Eleven seven eighty is the asking price
demanded by Crow from his lofty perch
pecking through the final fall of crumbs
that litter the arid ground.
He who begs to differ with the people’s
voice, who seeks to emulate the power
of despots and dictators from by-gone
years of tattered memory.
A time of danger and hysterical division
of harsh raised voices and shaking fists
seeking to outplay the honest ball-park
game with cries of ‘foul!’
A never-ending shout, calling out mobs
to run the city streets, creating trouble
encouraging the stand between patriots
and traitors once again.
Listen to the endless list of brazen lies
spilling with insidious intent in streams
of garbled utterances, running torrents
of a crazy, made-up tale.
Speak truth to falsehood, let others see
the courage of your voice, hear you tell
the story as it really is, democracy hung
out to dry in winter wind.
Cry tears of dreams from another time
remember words of a passionate regret
spoken to courageous crowds gathered
once by a seat of Lincoln.