His 'cords tore while he toured;
He couldn't sing but he won an award.
In his hand a golden sword,
That rawhide voice which mis'rably toured.
The sons of liberty,
The death of a son.
How dares your propriety
Lay claim to this one?
After bruises and steel,
Crisis defined.
Smelted; refined.
Just how could he feel?
And the drumsticks were broken, Chronos withered the hands.
The organ forgotten, with his voice and demands.