Page:When the Leaves Come Out (Chaplin 1917).pdf/32

  He marches down the highway,
 * The cheers ring loud and shrill;

With deadly weapons in his hand He leaves "his own dear native land"
 * Some corpse strewn trench to fill.

They lead him to the "enemy"
 * To prove his warlike skill;

He knows not who, he knows not why. But some poor slave has got to die
 * For he is there—TO KILL.

Beneath his masters' banner,
 * Before his masters' hill,

Unto his masters' god he'll pray (Slave seeking courage slaves to slay)
 * And aid "divine" to kill.

Then comes MACHINE MADE MURDER. .
 * The strongest hearts are still . ..

And many a slave has found a grave In gory sod or a crimson wave—
 * YEA, OF HIS OWN SWEET WILL.

The workers have THEIR struggle—
 * Their war to wage—until

It comes to pass the workingclass Beneath its OWN red flag shall mass,
 * The world with joy to fill.

Unite! unite! for your own fight,
 * In mine and shop and mill;

How better far such battles are Than all the streaming ways of war
 * Where slaves fight slaves TO KILL!

