Imagine you're at the Green Dragon Tavern in Boston's North End two hundred and fifty years ago, it's alive with ink, ale, and argument. Colonists gather around a Broadside, voices rising to “The Liberty Song.” They’re weary of taxes, wary of power, but hopeful enough to sing of liberty. Freedom, it seems, began on paper, words printed in haste, sung in satire, and sold for a penny. A Beggars Opera of rebellion and belief, performed by a nation still learning its lines. We may have traded presses for posts, but the argument endures. 

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