Tradition I spite thee in thy face
For thou maketh slaves of free men
What right do thou possess?
To govern the desires of rational men
Thy reign is cursed
For in rehashing a forgotten past
And in stubbornly rejecting
The winds of change that sweep past thy lands
Thou not knowest the finer virtues that men may boast of
Freedom, love and choice are denied to thee
Only the emptiness of honour and duty
Ring across your vast expanses
Has thou ever lain underneath the starry skies
Without a care in the world
Or tread barefoot through a rainstorm
Mounted the tallest peak
And wondered what it would be like
To sprout wings and fly
I turn my back upon thee
And go to make my own lands
Riding out on the chariot of fire
Far from the sorrows thou has inflicted upon me
There where no edict of a byegone era
Will rule my destiny
For in choosing to become my own master
I am blessed
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