We'll still be here in Everett when your career is ended,
And back among the dregs of life your dirty hide has blended;
When you shun the path of honest wrath and fear the days to come,
And bow your head to the flag of red, you poor white-livered bum!
For the part you played in Everett's raid that fateful Sunday morn,
May your kith and kindred live to curse the day that you were born;
May the memory of your victims haunt your conscience night and day,
Until your feeble, insect mind beneath the strain gives way!
Oh, Don McRae, you've had your day; make way for Freedom's host:
For Labor's sun is rising, soon 'twill shine from coast to coast!