By Mark Wachtler, 1992
When the warm summer sun, sits high up above
And the winter wind all but kills the white dove
Where mischief and sadness are the trend of the day
And death and destruction, the rules that they play
Who has the courage, to save us from these
And come to our rescue, respond to our pleas
Why a hero of sorts, is just what we need
And stand up beside him, follow his lead
But where can we find, this man among men
Armed with a sword, or even a pen
Convince him to join us and give us a hand
To fight for our freedom, our lives and our land
Who are we kidding, ourselves not the least
We don’t stand a chance with this murderous beast
He’ll strike us all down, with one fatal blow
And peace blessed peace, we never shall know
But it wouldn’t take much, to win this last fight
My brethren and I, we’ve all seen the light
We don’t need a warrior to fight for our cause
To save us from slavery, to break down the walls
We’ll do it ourselves, we’ll rise up as one
And strike a hard blow, for the warm summer sun
