StevenBoatman

My country 'tis of thee,Sad land of bigotry,Of thee I sing!Land where so many have diedTo feed vainglorious prideAnd every hand is dyedIn darkest red.My naive fellows, see,This land that you call freeIs barely so.See 'round you all the poor,Overworked, tired, and sore,Their numbers growing moreWith each new day.Where have the good men gone,While we have suffered long,So ill at east.The Church sits on her hands,The "good" men fail to stand,As our country's fragile strands...