He marches down the highway,
The cheers ring loud and shrill;
With deadly weapons in his hand
He leaves "his own dear native land"
Some corpse strewn trench to fill.
They lead him to the "enemy"
To prove his warlike skill;
He knows not who, he knows not why.
But some poor slave has got to die
For he is there—TO KILL.
Beneath his masters' banner,
Before his masters' hill,
Unto his masters' god he'll pray
(Slave seeking courage slaves to slay)
And aid "divine" to kill.
Then comes MACHINE MADE MURDER . .
The strongest hearts are still . . .
And many a slave has found a grave
In gory sod or a crimson wave—
YEA, OF HIS OWN SWEET WILL.
The workers have THEIR struggle—
Their war to wage—until
It comes to pass the workingclass
Beneath its OWN red flag shall mass,
The world with joy to fill.
Unite! unite! for your own fight,
In mine and shop and mill;
How better far such battles are
Than all the streaming ways of war
Where slaves fight slaves TO KILL!
25
