~ by Charles A. Coulombe
I must admit that I often dream
of the glimmering light of the Old Regime.
In my secret garden grows
The Lily and the fair White Rose.
Over all, the mournful cry
Of the Double-Eagle fills the sky.
In this day of grenade and tank,
When real power lies in the Bank,
Such hoping for a muse of fire
Runs counter to approved desire.
But still I hope a time will come,
Before my tale of years is done,
When exiled to the realm of dream
Is the souless face of the New Regime.
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