Behold Woodrow Wilson Offers Up a Riddle Woodrow Wilson portends progress on your land. A people's empty head holds on high - priestly shamans adherents to the shore - offers trusting hearts to Dark Fabian's siren song. Gaze the mirror darkly glowing - there sacred countenance hanging. Behold shaded pinnings laid and olden praising as though lore - burning pages nineteen hundred more. Legion secrets where there were none. Clandestine ever changing over fallen ever climbing - never stopping, never giving - only taking for their own with titles interchanging - Definitions rearranging evil harvest they do sow. Now the treasure if you find it - where it's from just never mind it. Cry aloud no one hearing - heros downed as from behind. It's never where you think it. If it's hemlock you would drink it. Seek the answer to this riddle away your days you will diddle - bright performance your demise. Stalwart walls upon is written. Dandy musing wrong lest is given - even so all repeat it just the same. (This insoluble riddle's just for fun - you will not solve it lest history deep is your love. Though you will never admit it we all of us will relive it as in a tormenting dream that if we look far enough behind we can see tomorrow - and that's the good news. Now for the Bad...~:0)