My! does he look weary.
He who, in his brown dundrearies,
rests at end of day.
When come what may,
he'll be the artist of the word,
hone the sword-like edge that's heard
beyond these flint rock walls
that castle-like protect us all
who harbor thoughts most incorrect,
who softly speak so indirect
as if someday it may matter
what was said and what was written,
what was painted, photoed, printed,
down here in this prairie town,
below Mount Oread.
I ask the man with brown dundrearies,
"What makes you weary?"
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