It isn’t just to see the hills beside me
Grow fresh and green with every growing thing;
I only want the leaves to come and hide me,
To cover up my vengeful wandering.
I will not watch the floating clouds that hover
Above the birds that warble on the wing;
I want to use this GUN from under cover—
O, Buddy, how I’m longing for the spring!
You see them there, below, the damned scab-herders!
Those puppets on the greedy Owners’ String;