Down the valley forge
On the mouth of the Schuylkill River
Sitting on the foot of the antique stone
The crying poet
Throbbing the drums of the ancient gods
And the buzzing I. The literary voice
The virtuous flute is blown by the crying poet
As the public serpent rears it's ugly head
Like the murmurs of the stream
He prattles with his quill
That dances in bluish
And his eyes crying over err
Yea, the societal ills
The maltreatment of the have-nots
Hark!
The fearless hemorrhagic
Whose hue and cry
Echoes from the desert tunnel
To sit over the conscience of the public serpent
May we console the crying poet
And drink his bleeding pen
