The tyrant would cower, the armies would crack,

At the screech of kingly Oswald McTack;

For ever was there as olid a name

That put the delegates, the senates to shame?

A gard’ner of wealthy greens he was not;

Silver lunaria by his breath did rot.

Not to fame nor familial esteem was he wont,

But to words of flame, sund’rance and taunt.

The few free folk hidden from the monarch

Afore capture, to plebs, said they, Hark! 

Doth not ye see the gaol that, in doubt,

Ye runneth towards, for thy brains are without?

But no one heard, and when ambivalence died,

Sic semper tyrannis! the zealots cried.

And when years passing rendered Earth black,

Still stood the enterprise of Oswald McTack.