The masses cast an eye toward the oracles
Hoping for someone to light the way,
But these are not found on mountaintop or in cave,
Rather are conveniently summoned by your remote control
At anytime throughout your every day.
The oracles see us not as individuals
But rather as collective faction,
And the pain that you feel in your restless soul
Is the precursor to perpetual dissatisfaction.

Where are the gentleman farmers
Or gifted generals who would lend a day?
Where are the elder statesmen,
Men of stature, whose speech was plain?
Where are the men of true grit
Who believe in the greatness of the American way?
Where are the national heroes,
Whose valor will never decay?

I am not devoid of guarded hope,
But neither do I trust in reckless
Overtures of amateurs in the captain’s chair.
These are difficult days
And government seems to fly
On the adrenalin of a hasty dare.
I abhor the seductiveness
Of false prophets with faith unclear,
And neither do I abandon
Long-held conviction, which I hold forever dear.

Ours is a thickly wicket
And bread crumbs do not mark the trail,
Ours is a mighty ship
With an unclear wind to fill our sails.
Great leadership
Must first be anchored by trust,
Unlike the cunning lure of power
Which may engender an unholy lust,
But the great iron horse is in motion
Fueled by the call for change,
While the skeleton of God’s favored nation
Lies buried,
Fine memories on the American Range.