In the great land of Libertia,
There was a fine man in Principia
Who all his life his living made by craft.
He painted canvas, carved up stone,
Frescoes, sculptures, fabric sewn;
If art was ever needed, he was asked.
He loved this country, his great land,
For rights protected made it grand.
Of certain freedom there was never doubt.
The liberty this, the right of that,
Protected, written, inviolate.
No law could mock, no court case e'er stamp out.
Above all rights stood one supreme,
The one by which this man could dream,
And turn his dreams to artwork by his hand.
This same right protected Press,
Speech, Religion, all the rest.
'Twas this same right which made such happy land.
But into this great happy place
Rode a band, a great disgrace,
Spewing hatred, spouting vile lies.
No one liked their vicious slander,
But they had the right, you will remember.
A right on which all freedom lives or dies.
Our gentle artist met this band
In his shop, their coin in hand.
They asked him, "Would you paint a gruesome scene?"
"Hate and vile, I won't do it!
Get you hence and see ye to it!
Leave me out, my conscience must be clean!"
That's where this story should've ended,
But these wicked fellows were offended.
"Get a judge, we will, you selfish pig!"
And get a judge, they did, oh my!
With one deaf ear and one blind eye,
In long black robe with long white powdered wig.
"This is awful," I heard him say.
"You can't refuse them, there's no way.
You violated all their civil rights.
"You must paint and you must carve,
Whatever they want, no extra charge.
You must work long days and even longer nights."
This judment echoed through the air
Till none was free and naught was fair
And one day people found that they were slaves.
There didn't seem to be escape
As each new judge more rights would rape.
But the artist took to hide in mountain caves.
For twenty years he carved and painted
While down below the people fainted.
Their rights were gone, their spirits beaten down.
One spring day when mount snow thawed,
The slaves looked up and all were awed,
For spread across the range was Artist's work.
After twenty years it came together,
A bold sign made to break their fetters.
Upon each single mountain peak one word.
"Forced speech is not free," it said.
In bold blue letters, offset in red.
There upon the mounts for all to see.
Reminded! "Yes, we had some rights!
"We let them go without much fight.
For rights of others seemed to stifle me.
"It was not like that at one time.
My rights, your rights, all were fine.
We remember how we all behaved.
"Your rights ended where mine began.
Likewise mine where you would stand.
No one was made to be another's slave.
"Off with shackles! Off with chains!
We will rise up, our rights reclaim!
We will take back our land of Libertia."
And so it was the folk revolted.
The judges fled. The king, he bolted.
And freedom came again to Principia.
Now you may think this tale a fool,
But open eyes, remove the wool.
For this same thing has happened in your nation.
A man with camera forced to shoot;
Cake decorators have to pretend it's cute.
The rights we've lost were once our proud foundation.
Far too long we quipped and quibbled,
While at the roots the termites nibbled.
Far too much we failed to hold a line.
And now our chickens are home to roost.
Our situation is self-induced.
For we looked the other way and said, "We're fine."
With chains tight now, the gag's in place.
The "rights" of others won the race.
Is there any hope to set things straight?
I wonder if a Patrick Henry,
A Washington or a John Jay, any,
Founding Fathers would think it now too late.
Victor Eugene Mowery
June 12, 2014
