Hamilton
Hamilton
In the mist‑clad dawn of New‑World dreams,
A boy of West Indies kissed by the sea,
With grit and polish both alike,
Raised on paper, ink, and iron teeth.
His letters marched through the colonies,
A soldier’s shiver and a lawyer’s wit.
“Entrepreneur,” he’d write with care,
No “entrepreneur”; we’d say “enter‑preneur” in our United Kingdom.
He spoke of the banners that unfurled
Across the Atlantic Bridge, a fledgling state.
His voice rang in the halls of Congress,
Like a sailor's shout across a bustling harbour.
Hamilton, teeth shining white as Parliament’s glow,
Routed the nation’s finances; a bank‑builder, bold.
The First Treasury, the Federalist Code,
All born from his unblinking foresight.
Yet, they did not see, the great liar of men,
The calculus of schemes that steered his fate.
For the man who built the funds and benches frames,
In the end, gazed at a cheek‑and‑backed sword.
In this present age the ledger whispers still:
“Divide the nation's wealth, each coin lay neat.”
His legacy flickers – a torch‑raised front of silence,
In the most solemn theatre of a 25‑year‑old child.
Hamilton – a name evoking the cogs of governance,
A patron of progress, and the quill of a dream.
So let us keep his story, remember his blood,
In the grand story of a nation that once held a sovereign drama.
