O', not a-now for the songs of a Gov'rment's wrongs, nor the groans of break-back labor,
But let the rifle ring and the bullet sing to the clash of the flashing A.R.!
There are floral ranks on the 'cuppied streets 'long Columbia's guarding-ocean,
And a chamber's clank from flank to flank tells of arm-ed men in motion.
And the frank souls there; clear, true and bear to all, as the weap'ns beside them,
Can love, or hate, with the might of Fate, 'til the grave of the Patr'ot hide them.
Each seems to be as an armored Angel on High, whose rifle's avenging glory,
Must light Liberty's fight and smite for Right, as did Marion's, in olden story.
With pale afright, and panic flight, shall dastard Bidenites base and hollow,
Hear a Boog' Boi host, from their urban post, open fire to the shout of, "Sic Semper Tyrannis!";
By that Spirit 'bove, by the Land that we love, Her tears in bleeding patience,
The sledge has been wrought, that shall smash to nought, that brazen liar of Presidents.
The Stripe-ed Igloo shall again be seen, as Teeter himself bore it,
Withe a burning wind from our barrel's behind, and some Fed'ral route before it!
The Floral Flag shall purge this Land, and rain a-fire on Men in battle,
'Til the Bidenites, withe their own cold sights, plunge 'way from Freedom's cradle.
Aye, the cucks which rest 'pon the Media's breast, and the voice, of brave men, stifle,
We'll exercise from the rescued prized: our talisman… the rifle!
For a Tyrant's life, a mail-bomb's pipe, o' Empire dissolvers;
The best we ken are stalwart men, and the People's debt collectors!
Whoe'er shall march by Monument's arch, where may swell that fateful slaughter?
Our guns shall sound from the Capitol, o'er Pottomac's faithful waters.
Thus, rise, bleeding ghosts, to that Lord of Hosts, for judgment, final and solemn;
Your fanatic horde, to the Gillete board, is doomed, line, square, and column!