O, I die, local leaders and turncoat brothers;
As I am still, from your potent poisonous pen
That quite o'er-crows my spirit: I cannot live to
Hear the news from Reidsville where we began our own
NWTA weekends ten years ago …
But I do hereby prophesy with my blunt sword
Held to your neck: the dying of the whole body
When with your faltering attempt to stifle one
Voice that remains – that voice shall make gains and go out
To more men rather than less - and shall be reborn
A Wild Man unabated on the Internet.