By Andrew R. Duckworth
The day is bright, I hear it said
From those choosing darkness instead
As thoughts of oppressing fill their head
And discussion of freedom is quickly shed
And our fathers’ dreams are broken and dead.
But the day is bright, I hear it said.
The day is bright, I hear them declare,
Almost as if they’re unaware
That freedom was once something we shared,
But freedom was not on their list to be spared
And they look on the oppressed with little care.
But the day is bright, I hear them declare.
The day is bright, says the withered man
Without a mind and without a plan
As the puppeteers do what they can
To plant their filth upon free lands,
Grasping liberty out of our hands.
But the day is bright, says the withered man.