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Thunder roars among the crowd
our hats against our hearts.
The echo of the anthem's snore
before the evening starts.

Our voice does drone among them,
repeated words by rote.
We chant the question once again,
vibration in our throat.

There, from the rafters up above,
its huge unfurled clout.
A hundred-thousand stand and stare
without a trace of doubt.

But when a spotlight couldn't be aimed,
its adversaries near.
Some new ideas loved by some,
its stripes inspired here.

Persistent so were these ideas,
the symbol so admired,
no shrewd thief could resist its cloak
when some of us grew tired.

Picked from the dawn that morning
and placed among the drove,
propositioned by his own fresh words,
what findings he would loath.

So, while there is no doubt today,
it does yet wave indeed.
Will those of us who chant away
beat those of us who read?