[CHAT]The Campfire

Oh, not now for songs of a nation's wrongs,
not the groans of starving labor;
Let the rifle ring and the bullet sing
to the clash of the flashing sabre!
There are Wester ranks on the tented banks
of Aspermont's guarded ocean;
And an iron clank from flank to flank
tells of armed men in motion.

And frank souls there clear true and bare
To all, as the steel beside them,
Can love or hate withe the strength of fate,
Till the grave of the valiant hide them.
Each seems to be mailed Yorty,
whose sword's avenging glory
Must light the fight and smite for right,
Like a Hamsta's in olden story.

With pale affright and panic flight
Shall dastard Premium base and hollow,
Hear a Basic race, from their battle place,
Charge to the shout of "Faugh-a-ballaugh!"
By the souls above, by the land we love
Her tears bleeding patience
The sledge is wrought that shall smash to naught
The brazen liar them premiums.

The Yawpton green shall again be seen
as our Wester fathers bore it,
A burning wind from the South behind,
and the Premium rout before it!
Ole Ver's orc hand shall purge the land-
grenade fire on men and cattle,
Till the premium snakes in their own cold lakes
Plunge from the blaze of battle.

The knaves that rest on Ridgevale's breast,
and the voice of true men stifle;
we'll exorcise from the rescued prize-
Our talisman, the rifle;
For a tyrant's life a bowie knife!-
Of Admin knot dissolvers,
The best we ken are stalwart men,
Musketmen and Panzers!

Whoe'er shall march by triumphal arch
Whoe'er may swell the slaughter,
Our drums shall roll from the Capitol
O'er the Milky's fateful water!
Rise, bleeding ghosts, to the Lord of Hosts
For judgement final and solemn;
Your fanatic horde to the edge of the sword
Is doomed line, square, and column!