November, 1916
Columbia, my sister,
Republic great and free,
When Liberty was threatened
I looked in vain to thee;
That hope was vain, my sister,
You lost your greatest chance;
Men live on lies in Utah,
Men die for truth in France.
Columbia, my sister,
You saw my blood run red,
My sons and daughters murdered,
The tears my orphans shed;
You raised no voice in protest,
To stop the Hun's advance;
Men live at ease in Kansas,
With hell let loose in France.
Columbia, my sister,
Your children you have seen,
Drowned in the cruel ocean
By German submarine;
But baseball is important,
The theatre and dance,
And pleasure rules in Texas
While horror reigns in France.
Columbia, my sister,
In sordid love of gain
Your vultures and hyenas
Wax fat upon the slain;
The nations, sorrow stricken,
Receive your careless glance,
And wealth in Massachusetts
Means poverty in France.
Columbia, my sister,
I know your heart is right,
Though on your head has fallen
This hellish Hunnish blight;
I love you still, my sister,
And warn you, lest perchance
The Huns may rule Wisconsin
When driven out of France.
JIM'S SACRIFICE
Jim marched away one summer day
To fight the boastful Hun,
In khaki clad, as fine a lad
As ever carried gun,
No braver knight e'er went to fight,
In shining coat of mail,
In days of old, for love or gold,
Or for the Holy Grail.
His aim was sure, his heart was pure,
Like good Sir Galahad,
He played the game when hardships came
His face was always glad,
Until, by chance, somewhere in France,
He saw a "Hometown Sun,"
He read one page, then in a rage
He strafed it like a Hun.
The girl he loved had faithless proved,
And German slacker wed;
That cruel stroke Jim's spirit broke,
He wished that he were dead.
He who had been so straight and clean,
And every fellow's chum,
Now lived apart with hardened heart,
And soaked himself with rum.
'Mid rats and mice and fleas and lice
He spent his days and nights;
Waist deep in mud, besmeared with blood,
He fought a hundred fights;
His faith was lost, the angel host
Of Mons he didn't see;
No Comrade White beheld his plight,
With loving sympathy.
The devil strip, where bullets zipp,
The narrow neutral band
Where man to man they fight and plan
To win that "No Man's Land";
Here Jim would go to hunt the foe,
He thought it only fun,
And that day lost that couldn't boast
Another slaughtered Hun.
His awful deeds so say the creeds,
Jim's bright young manhood marred;
His health was sound, he got no wound,
But sin his spirit scarred.
Some lost their health, some lost their wealth,
Of all war took its toll,
Some lost their life in bloody strife,
Jim only lost his soul.
THE ORGY OF THOR
The war god calls, whate'er befalls
His orders must be filled,
Though work may stop in mine and shop,
And farms may lie untilled.
At his command each human hand
Must toil to pay the price
In coal, or meat, or wool, or wheat,
Oil, cotton, corn or rice.
From pole to pole he takes control
Of land, and air, and tide,
Then death and dearth fill all the earth,
And hell's gate opens wide.
Fierce robber bands, o'er desert sands
No white man ever saw,
Bring all their spoil, with endless toil,
To fill the monster's maw.
O'er ice and snow the huskies go,
Beneath the northern star,
And gather toll, a scanty dole,
To pay the god of war.
From out the States go mighty freights
Of cotton, corn and oil;
From West to East, to feed the beast,
The people save and toil.
The West's astir, the binders whirr
Around the settler's shack;
The threshers hum, lest winter come
Before the wheat's in sack.
The bullocks strain on loaded wain,
Piled high with bales of wool,
A season's clip from shed to ship;
The cargo must be full.
The drivers swear, the bulls by pair
Plunge panting through the dust,
Like things accurst they die of thirst
The war gods say they must.
Where battle fields dread harvests yield
The war god's revels be,
Where blood runs red, he counts the dead,
And shrieks and howls in glee.
With fiendish laughs, he fiercely quaffs
The precious crimson tide;
He'll drink his fill, nor rest until
His blood lust's satisfied.
MOTES AND BEAMS
We condemn, with hot curses, the Hun
For his piracy, perjury, pride,
For his nameless atrocities done,
For the ten million victims that died.
Then we'll lift holy hands to the skies,
When the day of our victory comes,
While pale children, with piteous cries,
Starve for bread in the slime of our slums.
We despite the degenerate Yank
With his blood-spattered idol of gold,
Who, his birthright, for cash in the bank,
And political pottage has sold.
Then we send our poor boys to the war
With a prayer that they keep themselves clean,
And we purchase a shining new car,
Praying harder for cheap gasoline.
We detest the false Bulgars and Greeks;
They must learn to be true to their friends;
They have proved themselves traitors and sneaks,
Using war for their own selfish ends.
But our grafters their pockets may fill,
While valiantly waving the flag,
Caring nothing who settles the bill,
If they only get off with the swag.
We abhor the unspeakable Turk,
For his orgies of murder and shame,
His detestable devilish work
Done in honor of Allah's fair name;
Then we pray as the Pharisee prayed,
While afar off the publican stood,
But forget the Creator has made
All the children of men of one blood.