When one is cross, and fleeing fared,
With warnings of a kiss not shared,
All one does is tally through,
A wit-craft not to misconstrue,
Those dealings of worn chariot,
Hull of proletariat.
So, the wheel goes on, and on it goes,
While rich are thieves, and saints hymn woes.

Now hear my song, so you may wake,
To true purpose and God’s own sake,
That we must stand before we fall,
And taste true freedom, so that we all,
May grab on to fate’s countless thread,
To weave a path which all are lead.
Through victory, save all that may,
End the night, and bring the day.

© Sayer Teller

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