What matters that ten million died
To give thy lust a dwelling place?
Does not thy Terror set aside
The ancient freedom of the race?
What matters that the peasant's plow
Bites at a soil baptised with red?
Are not thy bloody dollars now
More myriad than the myriad dead?
That in charred cities, wan with pain,
War-desolated mothers live,
While lips of babies tug in vain
At breasts that have no milk to give?
Or that beneath thy battered walls,
Cursed with the eloquence of hell,
Black Want to red Rebellion calls . . .?
Heed not, I tell thee all is well!
Heed not! Have vine-clad maidens sing
And serve thee scented wine and gore;
Laugh! Glut thyself to vomiting,
And hiccough, screaming still for more.
What of the Men against the gate,
Black-massed and sullen, gaunt and lean . . .
Like thee they crave one thing to hate.
Be glad . . . and whet thy guillotine!
THE RED GUARD
Sons of the dawn! No more shall you enslave
Nor lull them with your honied lies to sleep,
Nor lead them on like herds of human sheep,
To hopeless slaughter for the loot you crave.
For now upon you, wave on mighty wave,
The iron-stern battalions rise and leap
To extirpate your breed and bury deep
And sow with salt the unlamented grave!
Accursed Monster -- nightmare of the years--
Pause but a moment ere you pass away!
Pause and behold the earth made clean and pure--
Our earth, that you have drenched with blood and tears--
Then greet the crimson usurer of Day,--
The mighty Proletarian Dictature!
THE RED FEAST
Go fight, you fools! Tear up the earth with strife
And spill each others guts upon the field;
Serve unto death the men you served in life
So that their wide dominions may not yield.
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