Lincoln was a lonely man.
He knew the bite of want.
He lawyered in the stolen fields
which Red men used to haunt.
The slowness of a river bend
Where turbulence runs deep
Is underneath his starched white shirt
And keeps him from his sleep.
But Honest Abe is sleeping now
And cannot be dismayed
At the wars his country spreads,
At principles betrayed.
Lincoln was a homely man.
Today he'd have no heart
In the juggernaut we bless
To break the world apart.
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