Upon the milky ebon bone,
outright their fingers cry!
Stories whisper littered half-dreams,
as carps of gold march by.
Can the judge judge the crime if
only he ponders why?
There has been quite the crime since then,
the rich had stole from poor.
Yes, sadly more of tragedy,
lawyer they could not 'ford.
But whom will help the helpless hand,
and never ask for more?
It was an old Sammy Juniour,
sung liberty so sweet.
Gathered and marched a million men,
who never moved their feet.
Conflict led to savage showdown
With rich crying, "Retreat!"
Allow half-dreams to melt away
into the ribs of me.
My arms tell tales of heroes fails,
that even blind can see.
I will be here when you are gone--
I am but his story.
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