Traipsing in the mud, an eerie mist of dawn, a sprig of rosemary in a capotain hat aching for thee to know our aim
For we are at war but our weapons could only be perhaps an axe, a pitch fork for whence the claim of our name of levelling thee hedgerow to the floor.
Our only weapons in real sense be the weapon of the word, the weapon of natural law, governing liberty to one and all.
And we got into trouble for not taking off our hats or kneeling before the Lords, but kneeling before the unelect, our words we’d rather crawl, spread across a peaceful land, bringing liberty t’ one and all.
Pamphleteering of The Moderate, alas afore too long, marginalised by those in power, perhaps through history hear our call.