In this sweet place, where children's voices ring
With laughter, and the halls are bright with song,
And servants tend to every little thing,
Though tears may come, they seldom last for long.
The father, in his office, wields his pen
With gusto, and his every stroke draws blood
As far-off villages are burned, their men
killed off, and all their fields are turned to mud
The mother, in her chambers, sits and dreams
Of what new dignitaries she'll invite
To her parties, and in what gaudy themes
She'll decorate, for them to dance all night.
A century this house has stood, and more,
"Sic Semper Tyrannis" above the door.