A Mari Usque Ad Mare,
From sea to sea, the last whiffs of,
Nationalism are burned off.
Like an early morning fog.
Panjandrums bloviate,
As they vie for their spots in the,
Newest Order,
A new order for the Ages.
To those violated as they fed their families,
It seems contrived.
To those who lit the beacons,
It seems needless.
But sea to sea is the prize,
And sea to sea,
To sea,
A fortress is to be built,
It’s a hard thing,
The lesson not taught,
But the father rarely sits the child down,
And explains,
The true danger lies in paying attention.
By W. N. Branson
