U. Quill

 Up above the mountain's highs, He stands, a fierce look dwells in his eyes, Above him float the azure skies, Below him the vast ocean lies, His fix'd stare on the prey he ties, And out of the blue, he flies; A great indeed glorious sight, Is this amazin' scene of flight, A show of the Mejestic Bird's might, The Great Eagle's kingly flight.

 All men were born one, The walls of inequality,  We must shun. All men were born one, Be it White or Black, Be it Indian or Cossack, Be it of Cathay or Korean, Jew, Arab, Roman or Hun, Of Adam we all, Are an equal son. The walls of inequality, We must shun. A very many men are out yon, But each sleeps in night and wakes in morn, Each is born and with death gone, Each has lost and Each has won. A very many genius have shone, But God made all a genius, in lone, Every man is unique in his own. Yet every man was born equal, and one Each is of Adam an equal son; But look what we, to this equality, Have ruthlessly done.

"The time comes," Injustice says, "When a world empire shall be found, Of which Dictator, I shall be crown'd; The lands will be roam'd,  by my pack of hound In the chains of my captivity,  Intelligent man, civiliz'd man,  shall be bound; The voice of Justice shall be drown'd, By my evil laughter's sound. This empire will soon be found; Dictator of the World, I shall be crown'd"

 Every tyrant eventually dies, We've seen many before you, Who are you to our seasoned eyes? All traitors eventually betray themselves, We have seen many before you, Who are you in our vast bookshelves? Many liars before you have lied, Many murderous killers have died, We have seen many before you, Who are you to us who have, On many like you cry'd? We all know your weak side, You're cowed by having died, Every soul shall taste death, You, too, will one day have died. We will with you deal, You're a wound that must heal, You, we'll have to in your grave seal.  You will not oppress us for long, When you die, you will leave  souvenirs of your wrong, The tales of injustice will become your farewell song.

France’s name, Napoleon’s fame glittered, All around allied foes slithered, He took on Rome, he faced the navy Briton, From Lodi to Milan, he won it alone, Egypt was one, he found the Stone, And at his masterpiece, Austerlitz, his genius shone, He prov’d his brilliance, etched his name into time, Then the mistake came: into Russia he did dart. They rallied, they penetrated France’s heart. April came, and came the end of his part So came the end of a time, Emperor of Europe to Emperor of Elba, But Great Napoleon never lost his ambition, A hundred-day comeback, and then again a setback, A defeat at Waterloo, Then to exile as well, At St. Helena he breathed his last, The Magnificent Warrior fell!

 In a log cabin in Kentucky, on February the Twelfth, a boy was born with a present most unpleasant but a glorious destiny ahead. Poverty he faced, the passing of his mother, and sufferings aplenty, to make out of him a man who'd look back at his childhood as a collection of memories most unhappy. Schooling, he had, just enough to be called literate – but just knowing to read was enough, at least for him... He found in books a friend in a world which to him was friendless and unknown, which spread into nothingness, promising nothing but naught. Years passed, and when the boy had hit manhood, to become a lawyer, a senator, a loyal Whig, the calamity knocked on his country’s door. He stood a-face an old rival to debate: right is what, freedom or slavery? The parties of the country broke up, and a new party rose from the debris of the Whigs and the Jeffersonians, with the young man as its presidential candidate.  In nineteen sixty, the rail candidate soared; he roared – the boy w...

Euclid hit it first, A round of applause burst, From the math wizards of all time, As the golden proportion divine, Shone brighter than sunshine, Manifesting ‘tself,  In the Mother of Rectangles, Begat, it, the Mother of Spirals, As the falcon went for his prey; It formed the Mother of Angles, As the leaves aassembl’d by the stem. As the Divine Ratio was shinin’, While the number whiz were all dinin’, A crier cry'd: Behold! Euclid Hit Gold!

Tis, of man, a companion menacing, ‘Tis what, since the descent of man, The world has been witnessing. ‘Tis the visible, even realized, foe, That turns man into a motley tribe. And lo! Destruction, devastation, obliteration, And ruin. Death, injury, and suffering— The gifts of this loyal friend, Who never leaves our side, Stands by us in the most difficult times, Teaches us lessons and teaches some novel crimes. If a loyal friend you want to see, This one is. It, we also may call our scribe. For, of man’s own blood, it writes, In the countless pages of history, The infinite instants of time, Of man, mankind, a tragedy. And that loyal friend, Plus a loyal foe, That visible yet mysterious being— That, ‘tis War .