Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by
bigger government;
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; Our 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 soul 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 Gavilan
Joe Thompson, Tres Pinos
