The loyal American will tell you
(Southron, take not that woeful name upon thyself!)
That his land is God’s City on a Hill.
But it is a peculiar deity who dwells there:
Where the chaotic frenzy of democracy
Has replaced the Grace of St John’s Liturgy;
In the icon corner squats a TV screen,
Imprinting on the soul demonic imagery;
Honor to actors and athletes is given,
Rather than the Saints who live in Heaven;
Newspapers choke out spiritual books,
And cash and coin are holy relics;
Where all have freedom of religion,
But very few can find salvation.
Behold, the New Jerusalem!
Boast of Yankees and offspring of Puritans.
Antichrist their king will enter soon
Into the temple they have built for him.
And from all their little blasphemies
He will forge one great and final blasphemy
To hurl at the Holy Trinity
Before its blazing lights are darkened
And its shining walls tumble down upon their heads.
Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð!
Anathema to the Union!