Here, we halt our March on D.C., and listen, long,

To the words of our President,

Boots pressed into the Mall ground,

Under none but God,

And, light our Morning, with the bright Sun rent,

By winds from the Heavens, High, around.

Wild Wars have torn this storied Seat of Power,

But, a wilder is at hand,

With the great sacrifice of Babbitt, our Martyr,

And a hard rain of Patriots' and Tyrants' blood,

To sweep, and waste, the Templed Land.

How the bright Morning rings with Voices shrill,

That, startle the sleeping Pigeon;

By the break of Noon, must all Voices be one,

And, the step must fall, across a Nation heard.

The Capitol Policeman lies by the blue Potomac,

In unknowing homely Bowers,

And, when that great River is crossed, my friends,

The City, and the Rotunda,

Even if but for a moment, are ours.

Fill up the Spirit from the sight,

Of the River that glides,

Where the Urban lights glow on the Bank;

A Fearful Conceit, the Bidenite hides,

In his Vaulted Building, once Inherited by the Meek,

Build high the Rage, until the Heart does leap

From its Left-side perch, in Defiant, Bold Array,

And, we will strenghten our weary Souls,

With Words of Valor,

For the Brave Deeds of Today.

Weep not for Liberty's bright-eyed Daughter,

Shot and gory slain;

Her crimson blood, by Federal talons shed,

Sends not its cry to Heaven, High, in vain:

For vengeance on the gray, old Murderer's head!

Though high the warm, red-capped torrent ran

Between the Tear-Gas and "Less-Lethals",

That lit the Virginia sky,

Yet, for each bright red drop:

An armed and ready Militia-Man

Shall rise, to Free America, or trying Die!

And for each of our Fair Martyrs,

A hundred of the Tyrant-Foe shall be,

A Banquet for the Bald-Headed Mountain Birds!

Stern Rites and sad, shall Columbia's Heirs ordain,

To keep that Sacred Day, along her Eastern Shore;

Until, that last-fastened link of Tyranny's dank chain,

Is shivered, to be worn by Patriots no more!