Freedom

A poet's freedom, is they can preach
On battles never fought, and cities never breeched.
For in that year of Eighteen Hundred and Three
England was not invaded by French, and there was no victory.
Yet, Wordsworth boldly prophesied, of victory that day;
No English soil was spilled with blood,
But in October of 1803 he did say,
In anticipation of British guns
To defend the Isles of Arthur
He had declared Britain a victory won.
No prophetic power, no fulfilled truth
It was only an idle boast...
Yet where the poet is not free to say
That brings on a mighty host.
For, illiberal are the times, and olden victories sore
Even if no armies assail, or come upon American shores
We have lost our right to speak and buy
And have lost our rights to privacy.
The poet's not free because the citizenry
Wish him to be fettered to their zeal.
For freedoms hard fought are gone
And the opposition against it childish.
For if peace lasted like so a thousand years
It would be the utmost vilest.