Whatever happened to thee beloved Scara

A nation was never known
to forget its anthem
One so dear to them
and so well known

It's no daily happening
for one to grieve a live soul
to cry and grumble in a hole
knowing not when it shall cease sinking

It's no tradition to drown a hero
It's a new-born a deed
to lock out one in need
And grind him to zero

A nation with no leader
A mob of the blind
The great they leave behind
A wound that knows no healer

what happens to those ironed by the carpet?
Who polishes the seedlings
And sharpens the proceedings
When in the fore stands a puppet?

If ever lived a breath with so black a blood
Then would spring out the cries in me
but air is the day I'll be free
And faints harder a dim grin that used to flood