From the hallowed halls, two kin of freedom soar,
Their shackles cut by eagles, upon the foamy shore.
Yet amidst this joy, the drums of war resound,
As errant sons of Abraham in battle's dread are bound.

A laborers chant echoes in the heartland dawn's embrace,
Progress finds its footing, quieting strife's base.
Fain, their leader, sees the givers yet unspent,
In contracts writ by iron hands, their demands are lent.

In the dragons breath, the scribe's truth is quelled,
The swan song of ideas, in perils grip they're held.
But lo, brave Johnson, gallant knight of quill and ink,
Saves the endangered tomes from tyranny's dread brink.

by Conchobar mac Dubhthach

a centaur