The story is that
A shining city on the hill
Was raised to serve as a
Beacon for the world
Lighting the way to
Liberty and justice for all
And though the ideal was not achieved
For many or for long
If for any or at all
It was yet held up and out as
The ideal
The goal toward which all ought to strive
And no few did more than make a show in that effort

The story is seldom told anymore
Striving seen as to no good end
And those who boasted they ought to be better
Have let themselves lapse into silence
Screaming until throats were bloodied
Availing nothing against the cacophonous din
Lost amid more dissonance than
An augmented fourth or minor second will sound
And I do not know if it is a relief that
The pretense has gone away or
A sullen, sodden shame that
The light has been let dim and die out at last

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