They’ll sing like birds on a Christmas-tree.
Down with them all! If they rise again,
They will munch our beef and bread:
War there must be with the living men;
There’ll be peace when all are dead!
This earth shall be our wide, wide home:
Our foes shall have the world to come.
Starve, starve them all, till through the skin
You may count each hungry bone!
Tap, tap their veins, till the blood runs thin,