The Score

We were told by the poachers
To plough, to till and bury hot sweat
Then put all our produce in the basket of FEDERALISM
In accordance with the quest for UNISM
and in the pursuit of COMMUNISM
believing fate as our profound guardian
Until the trend of the vulgars
Who knew the pogo best
And then a soul was lost
yet another, after the other, in that order
And then again in our straight jacket
mourning the deprived souls
On the same soil we all made merry
Lords of the imperial pioneers of the imperil.