Page:When the Leaves Come Out (Chaplin 1917).pdf/38

  Still I'm sure our friend so scathing Loves our movement—as a plaything
 * New and rare.

He delights to solve each puzzle That our common brains befuzzle, And to pry his yellow muzzle
 * Everywhere.

We rejoice that he can love us From the windy realms above us
 * Where he flies.

We poor dubs would never doubt him, Not a single thing about him, But how CAN we live without him
 * When he dies?

  You cur! How can you stand so calm and still
 * And careless while your Brothers strive and bleed?
 * What hellish, cruel, crime-polluted creed

Has taught you thus to do your master's will? Whose traitor dole has damned your soul until
 * You lick his boots and fawn to do his deed—
 * You pander to his lust of boundless greed

And guard him while his cohorts crush and kill?

Your sneaking crimes are like a rotten flood—
 * The beating, raping, murdering you've done—
 * You sycophantic coward with a gun:

The worms would scorn your carcass in the mud;
 * A bitch would blush to hail you as a son—

You loathsome outcast, red with human blood! 