I broke the fine mahogany table of hegemony,
the guillotine is shining and set for the ceremony.
Putsch forth for our mutual rise,
the flag must soar above Moorish heights.
Sling the throat of the traitors that sing our anthem,
pierce a sword through their conscience,
colour palettes birthed by blood, sweat and tears.
Clothed by the celestial apparel of our patriotic vest,
donned in wars by our ancestors first,
bound by the oath of honour to do our best.
You may now summon the sommelier,
and the sous chef for éclair,
after which we shall stir up our soup d’état.
To see and flood the shore with triumph,
The Promise Land.
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