Sons and daughters of Albion,

March on.

Time is a cruel mistress,

She gives no quarter.

Days are long ahead

Like lonely faces, island children.

Drenched in self hatred from years of allowing

Yourselves to be oppressed.

Mental boundaries

morph into the physical realm

and clip the wings of your phoenix.

It flounders and falls back into the fire

Screaming and writhing,


The smell of burnt feather

acidic inside the noses of the crowd

as they watch your dreams

fail to be reborn once more.

March on

Sons and daughters of Albion

For the time is ripe for change,

for those with red blood

and white knuckles.

Keep tight hold of what you need

and no more,

allow yourself to become a part of the flow.

Carve a heart into the bark

of the biggest tree you can find

and move on,

never to return.

Island child, son of Albion,

March on.