Still I'm sure our friend so scathing
Loves our movement—as a plaything
New and rare.
He delights to solve each puzzle
That our common brains befuzzle,
And to pry his yellow muzzle
Everywhere.
We rejoice that he can love us
From the windy realms above us
Where he flies.
We poor dubs would never doubt him,
Not a single thing about him,
But how CAN we live without him
When he dies?
THE MINE GUARD
You cur! How can you stand so calm and still
And careless while your Brothers strive and bleed?
What hellish, cruel, crime-polluted creed
Has taught you thus to do your master's will?
Whose traitor dole has damned your soul until
You lick his boots and fawn to do his deed—
You pander to his lust of boundless greed
And guard him while his cohorts crush and kill?
Your sneaking crimes are like a rotten flood—
The beating, raping, murdering you've done—
You sycophantic coward with a gun:
The worms would scorn your carcass in the mud;
A bitch would blush to hail you as a son—
You loathsome outcast, red with human blood!
31
