Providence
For, perhaps, the right man, on his birthday.
eight years of marxist malice,
many more of marked abuse,
are sole incentive that I need
to call now on the Muse:
nouveau versailles scorched o'er our Land,
made wilt What we had grown,
then mocked, “let those Deplorables
eat ash and stick and stone!”
And so, we prayed to Providence,
“if ever ends their reign,
send man, and not ‘messiah,’
and with him a Storm of Rain.”
“May It soft fall on our fields;
flower Bud and Bloom again.
May It flood nouveau versailles;
flush the poison from that den.”
“May Liberty sing in that Rain;
Historia write Rhyme,
when Providence sends us the Storm
and right man for the time.”
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Providence, Copyright © 2018 Papa Possum
