Poorly equipped,
Painfully whipped.
A threadbare Abyssinian
Did shuffle on
With all hope gone
In search of an opinion
But much deplored
When not ignored
This abject Abyssinian
Did seek in vain
Something arcane
To exercise dominion
And as he sought,
So lost in thought,
Through sands of Kalahari
He wondered how
He might avow
The freedom held so dearly
It struck at last
With trumpet blast
Amidst fields green with barley,
He boldly rode
And proudly crowed
The statement: “I am Charlie.”