I stand beneath the broken banner, ragged at the fringe,
This tattered flag, this battered rag, tortured by the wind,
Though once it rallied countless roaring, warring, whoring hoards,
No longer will it summon them, or their cleaving swords.
No longer will it flap and flick and fly upon the breeze,
No longer will the sight of it bring subjects to their knees,
No longer will it cause them to bow down and genuflect,
No longer will it be symbolic of those who protect.
For in its name we unleashed the white hot fires of Hell,
And in their incandescence every ragged banner fell,
And every sorry soul huddled round their battle flag,
Had nothing left to show but a ragged, tattered rag.