Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by
bigger government. And all the clouds that unrestricted freedom
threatened in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Editor,
Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by bigger government. And all the clouds that unrestricted freedom threatened in the deep bosom of the ocean buried.
Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths; our sacred birthrights cast upon our scrap heaps; your unbridled growth curtailed by Marxist meetings, our dreadful self-sufficiency reigned by communal measures. Grim-visaged independence hath smooth’d his wrinkled brow. And now, instead of freedom of contract to sprout hope in the souls of sons of pioneers, he capers nimbly in a political stew to the lascivious pleasing of a commie.
But I, that am not shaped for urban life, nor made to court a hypocrite politician; I, that am rudely stamped, and feel my grandparents’ fervent dreams to work, and sweat, and bleed on a small piece of earth to have, Oh! Seattle, for a brief instant of time; I have a dream which cannot be robbed in a county I call Cienega.
Joe Thompson, via e-mail
