Our dreams… Yea, each and every one… have amassed into steady rain:

But the crocodile tears of twin gold-greedy impostors sent to fix your game,

And the noble truths which you've boldly spoken, twisted by bitter knaves,

A gruesome trap for hapless fools on America's wide Plain.

Recline… and watch the things you've given life unto broken, beaten, and cursed,

And though your Freedom may die, I must beg the question: Is it a death well-rehearsed?

You must plow the lone fields and hillsides, all, just the same,

And build the cinders back up again on old America's Plain...

And, did you lose all of your glory upon that single Pitch-and-Toss?

Still, are you never to breathe one word to a living soul about your loss?

Well, they can't force where your Heart leads, and their heels can't grind your Faith,

So you might as well hold on, on these Great American Plains.

You will, quickly, learn where to hide, and when, but before you begin,

You must learn how and why to print what no censor lets in,

For not a Battle-Flag is flown, not one fuss is made,

And there's few tosses given on your precious America's Plain.

All that we can do now is wait patiently for the rains,

And to find a new horned-monster, and thus a sturdy, worthy, scapegoat, on this vast American Plain.