The Corn That Makes The Holy Bread

Oh Some Are Fond Of Spanish Wine, And Some Are Fond Of French.

State Are Not Made, Nor Patched; They Grow; Grow Slow Through Centuries Of Pain, And Grow Correctly In The Main; But Only Grow By Certain Laws, Of Certain Bits In Certain Jaws.

All Ye That Pass By! While We Least Think It He Prepares His Mate. Mate, And The King's Pawn Played, It Never Ceases, Though All The Earth Is Dust Of Taken Pieces.

But He Has Gone, A Nation's Memory And Veneration, Among The Radiant, Ever Venturing On, Somewhere, With Morning, As Such Spirits Will.

When Life Knocks At The Door No One Can Wait, When Death Makes His Arrest We Have To Go.