this tale we know

no meaning in the noise just empty rage

but meaning in the numbers we can read

a lamentation for the passing age

so much is noted in the angry deed

not one second of silence they concede

although rough bone on bone will harshly grate

they won't surrender to the ones they hate

so little of our temper they can gauge

and not a portion of our urgent need

that forces us to deepest loudest rage

at sight of all their  joyful hateful greed

the product of the nature of their breed

they name this glory and call this their state

they won't surrender to the ones they hate

with such an enemy we can't engage

without an understanding of their creed

more than the lying words upon the page

we cannot trust the man riding the steed

who tells us that like us he has to bleed

and though their pain like ours can become great

they won't surrender to the ones they hate 

they will not quit their places on the stage

nor pay our anger any sort of heed

for that we know slow death's the only wage

and harsh uprooting as with any weed

justice we know we never could exceed

since though we tell our story plain and straight

they won't surrender to the ones they hate