'The ******'s bread''
was brown with hale,

Rose from the embers
outside the pale.

T'was all they ate for
days on end,

Their flag, their strife,
no wind could rend.

A staff, a standard, a
a nations knead,

A daily rising, is still
our creed.

Famine, fasting, while
some did feast,

Our memories are
stored in yeast.