Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Grieve the fallen warriors of diversity.
A trumpet’s mournful sound now casts its pall . . .
Southern rumors: prophets of perversity
Non-profiting from Liberal wherewithal:
Poverty’s pimps. Their bold hypocrisy
Weinsteins loudly, colliding with our news;
Southern Law: poor as our democracy
Purporting to promote progressive views.
His name rang sweet in all progressive ears
But now the cypresses sigh out their song;
For scams must be exposed—though it wring tears
We hear the dirge; night’s shadows looming long.
Weep, oh armchair zealots of the cause
For Morris Dees, a victim of his laws.