Why is it so hard to understand
That you are not alone in this still-young land--
Of which much was built by stolen hand
That was forced into labor by whips' cruel demand--
That, horn-handed or no, you march in a band,
Even when cadence is called by command
Of Stupid God's worker who follows no strand
Of music that is not written as in sand,
That a drum-beat is sounding and you can remand
Your braying and bleating, thus better suzerain'd,
To it, and thus make better music?
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