(After Psalm 137) By Flynn’s Creek, I sat and wept, remembering Pasadena and the God of my father. There on a poplar, I hung my guitar, for there my captor asked for a song. My tormentor demanded songs of joy: "Sing me a song of Pasadena and the God of your father." How can I sing the songs of my youth while in a foreign land, to which I fled while my father wept? If I forget you, O my father, may my right hand forget its skill; may my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth. Remember, O Lord, what I did on the day I fell. "Tear it down," I cried, "tear down the foundations of my faith!" O Daughter of Babylon, doomed to destruction, happy is he who repays you, he who seizes your infants and dashes them against the rocks.