All men know the stains of murder
May be lightly washed with gold.
Ah, but when the bright-eyed vulture,
Fresh from feasting on the slain,
Learns the way of foreign culture
Shall his claws grow sharp again?
So for him we weep, the Tartar
Blood-bedabbled to his wrists,
When his free soul sinks to barter
With abhorred capitalists.