To them the idea is so—well, so unkind—also ridiculous.
Their minds are made up.
They will not go.
But you, you brothers of the working class, you who toil on and on for cheap clothing, cheap shelter and cheap food—you whose very lives are bought and sold on the installment plan, for wages day by day—you who are forced to become the socially despised human oxen—you—you will be forced to the front, blinded with flattery and confused with gay-colored flags and booming drums—you will virtually be forced to cut your own throats—forced to blow out your own brains and blood with these modern steel destroyers, and forced to expose your lives to the grim curse, Disease. You will groan and scream and slowly rot and die in a dingy hospital tent or shed far from those you love—laughed at (secretly) by the prominent people who have already made up their minds not to go to war.
How long, O brothers of the working class, how long can you be seduced to slay yourselves?
Leading citizens will bring about and brag about the wars.
But you, my brothers, will fight the wars.
Grim Disease waits ready to give you her slimy embrace.
The cold steel machines are ready—ready for heated men.
Keep cool.