The Birth

The Birth

Philadelphia welcomes a new day,

Snow banks are dirty and gray,

The Sun’s rays reflect strong and bold,

November air remain still and cold.

 

Doubters still flourish in love of the King,

To the British ways they mindlessly cling,

They are monotonous in their desire to be led,

Wearing woolen coats colored dark red.

 

In the park where the children play,

People gather for the Harold to have his say,

The crowd swells in spite of the cold,

People yearning for thoughts both new and bold.

 

The Harold stands atop a box and raises his voice,

The box is delicate and his gestures are grand,

His words conveyed with a flurry of hands,

Offering the message — we all have a choice.

 

The Harold talks of a need to be free,

He reminds all of a harbor filled with tea,

Words for which he might forfeit his head,

Let me live free or — let me be dead.

 

The Harold calls, his voice laced with frost,

If we do nothing, then all will be lost,

Time is now to control your own fears,

Tun Tavern tonight we’ll talk and share beers.

 

Born in a bar in 1775,

Only now can we feel truly alive,

Divorced of both King and Queen,

As we proudly claim ourselves, United States Marines.

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