Bloodied: Beneath the toppled, red toy-bike Cannon lay;

His Black murderer looming over, pistol in his hand;

The fair boy's breast was shot clean through, his golden bangs of hair

Were matted in the gilded suburban sand.

When, in the mist of the valley of the shadow of death,

He saw a vision of the future: a White and Christian American land.

Far through the shining, boundless realms of his dying-dreams

The lordly North American rivers flowed;

Beneath the rising of the sun,

Not upon a child's bike, but within a stocky NASCAR frame he rode;

And heard the roar of mighty engines

Skim along the racing-road.

Cannon saw once more his mother: a Queen!...

Among his fathers, back to the firstborn of Adam, stand;

They patted his head, they kissed his cheeks,

They held him by the hand!:

A tear burst from the dying boy's lids

And fell into the purile sand.

And then at furious speed he drove

Along the great Arena's track;

His tight-fastened seatbelt was a silver chain,

And, with a banknote's rustle and copper slug's clank,

At each turn of the course he could feel his mighty rig of steel

Smote and flanked by a black car, fearsome and rank.

Before his gaze, like a bloody red-and-gold flag,

The aged sun downward flew;

From that twilight-hour on through the night he followed it's sad flight,

Over the stadium's bleachers where offspring of Interlopers grew,

Until, then, he beheld the bright spires of glorious Roman columns and vaults,

And Eastward, the Ocean rose to view.

And, that night he heard the proud lion of Arthur's England roar,

And the Stoic eagle of old Germany and regal Italy scream,

And the artful boar of fair France, as it crushed the slinking Serpent of false Zion

Beside some long, fought-after border-stream;

And it passed through, like a thundering roll of martial drums,

Amid the glory of Cannon's triumphal dream.

The Western hills and woods, with their twangy mountain-tongues:

Shouted unafraid, unashamed, of their Whiteness;

And the Blast of Tradition sang aloud,

With a voice just as wild and free,

So that Cannon sang low under weak and panting breath, and smiled

At the great Ethno-State that has not yet come to be.

He did not feel his life's blood from him slip,

Nor the burning sting of his death-wound in the heat of the tawny Carolina clay;

For Death had illumined to him that White Land that is still yet to be,

As his lifeless husk, far too young, lay

A tired martyr, who, from our own Race's self-neglect

Had been broken, killed, and thrown away to that Black beggar for to slay!

...Oh! Those who have heart! Those with a Soul!

Remember! Remember the Blood that Cannon shed that day: For thee!

The Sin of this Land will not Repent, until every White Son Goes Free!