The tangled webs they weave span from pine to ruby ridge, way back from shay's defeat on up to gustafsen (now cue the ass parade of ditto-heads and commissars and pricks to drown out this fainte
Reat of commie faggot heretics). conclusion: the nail that sticks up gets hammered down and the master's finest tools are found slack-jawed and placid amidst the cacophony of screaming billboard
Disney-fied history. sometimes the ties that bind are strange: no justice shines upon the cemetery plots marked hampton, weaver or anna-mae where federal bureaus and fraternal orders have cast
Shadows; permanent features built into these borders. but undercover of the customary gap we find between history and truth, the founding fathers bask in the rocket's blinding red glare. the bo
Ursting in air. one nation. indivisible? the truth is when the back-country learned of ratification the people had a coffin painted black and solemnly borne in funeral procession, they buried it
In the earth as an emblem of
The dissolution and internment of their publick liberty. someday, somewhere, today's empires are tomorrow's ashes.
