Page:The cry for justice - an anthology of the literature of social protest. - (IA cryforjusticea00sinc).pdf/558

 "I've paid for all my hundred dead, I've paid, I've paid, I've paid." His ragged laughter rang, and died— For he was sore afraid.

"I've paid for wooden hall and stair, I've paid to strain my floors, I've paid for rotten fire-escapes,  For all my bolted doors.

"Your fat inspectors came and came— I crossed their hands with gold. And now I want the thing I bought,  The thing the System sold."

The District Leader filled a glass With whiskey from the bar, (The little silver counter where He bought men's souls at par.)

And well he knew that he must give The thing that he had sold, Else men should doubt the System's word, Keep back the System's gold.

The whiskey burned beneath his tongue: "A hundred women dead! I guess the Boss can fix it up, Go home—and hide," he said.

All day they brought the bodies down From Max Rogosky's place— And oh, the fearful touch of flame On hand and breast and face!