(From the Socialist Standard, February 1915.)
You prate of love and murmur of goodwill,
Turn sanctimonious eyes toward your God,
Write on your walls the text “Thou shalt not kill,”
Point out the path your “Prince of Peace” once trod,
While all the time, with murder in your hearts,
You lie, cajole, and bully that the fools
Who heed your words may play their foolish parts
As slaves of Mammon, as the War-Lord’s tools.
On many a field, in many a river bed,
Of Flanders and of Poland and of France,
Your bloody-minded words bear fruit indeed.
Preachers of Death! the thought of maimed and dead
Will nerve us when our hosts of Life advance
To crush for ever your accursed breed. F. J. Webb
Turn sanctimonious eyes toward your God,
Write on your walls the text “Thou shalt not kill,”
Point out the path your “Prince of Peace” once trod,
While all the time, with murder in your hearts,
You lie, cajole, and bully that the fools
Who heed your words may play their foolish parts
As slaves of Mammon, as the War-Lord’s tools.
On many a field, in many a river bed,
Of Flanders and of Poland and of France,
Your bloody-minded words bear fruit indeed.
Preachers of Death! the thought of maimed and dead
Will nerve us when our hosts of Life advance
To crush for ever your accursed breed. F. J. Webb