When, when I thought it was naught but conspiracy,
That it'd be comic, a joke, not a would-be plea,
Who, who'd hit and break, swung, a shillelagh,
Hard wood strength, a bludgeon, a sequence, simply plainly,
What, what roots from prejudice so inclined to the contrary,
Brought harm to one's self, a broken goal to be free,
How, how the past, beyond belief, it'll truly see,
Deprecate the future held deep beneath seas,
And finally,
One last breath that awakens a crisp and unveiled gaucherie,
Picked like grapes in a heavenly vinery,
Why? You tell me.