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Pride on the Delaware
By Wolfgang Ambach
From dusk to dawn hounds hunt their musk. From dawn to dusk we curse most brusque. 13 stars sewn and 13 stars remain against the whispers of the dark, and the red British mane.
No worry in his mind trembles on his breath; he hungers for freedom like the Scott, Macbeth. His silver hair shines his worth. His might glows bright among the moon up high at night. His knee stands strong as a bannerman, waving his colors since birth.
No oar stops churning as we slither most silently, and in the morning when it’s pouring, the reds will wake most violently.
The misfit army, a farmer to my left, stone mason on my right, may her lady America give grace to us because not the roar of a crown or the march of a red can keep this young cobbler out of the fight.
