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Capitol Hill Riots

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.