Look around you now. Eighty years on are not those lights now evident everywhere? Do they not flicker and dance all around us? They shed no wholesome glow to drive away the night. They are the torches of the medieval dungeon, and the unforgiving glare of the interrogation room. They light the way to the portals of a totalitarian hell the like of which the world has never seen.

Will we stand against the deluge of tyranny swamping the nation? We teeter now on the edge of the abyss. Look and you will clearly see the waters of a new despotism boiling and frothing below. You must know, at this very hour, what awaits us at the end of this path to perdition. It is no yellow brick road we tread. The road we are on is paved with the bones of innocents and mortared with the blood of patriots. At its end is no emerald city. No leftist utopia awaits us. The road we are traveling ends in hastily dug ditches in misty fields and woodlands. It ends, not with the pealing of victory bells, but with the crash of bullets and the thud of falling bodies. If we do not stand, and soon, our still warm bodies will be tumbled into those ditches atop the cold corpses of those millions that have gone before us.