by Trelson L Mapp

Ride the steed to the potter’s shed

Where arts were made before they bled

These crimsoned grounds, of which we’ll span,

Are stained with blood from ancient hands

For certainty, today you’ll see

This t’ing called freedom is not free

Gallop with me along the soils

And smell the sweat our father’s toiled

Smell the powder of the guns

Hear the screams from landed rounds

See the swivel’s blazing hell

Feel the cannon’s ringing knells

Read the stones on all the graves

Know the names of all the slaves

Taste the winds of flags they waved

Scent the love of slaughtered braves

They fought for naught else but their pride

To free these grounds on which we ride

They bought a heart with their dear lives

Believe the truth and not the lies

Our kings were moved from lands they crowned

To make the buds to stash their wounds

Our queens were stripped of their demure

To spawn a son they called a boor

They stole his beats and all his grooves

And learned his rhythms and his moves

Then loosed their hounds to track his spoor

And took his wealth, today he’s poor

But certainly, today you saw

We paid for freedom in a war