Classic Poem

“I'm all alone; I can't organise anyone,
There's nobody left to organise me,
And still I'm the only organised atheist
In all the province of Skunktz (E. C.).

Sometimes disgusting disorganised atheists
Orphan the stars without permit from me,
Unmake their Maker without their ticket
Or their copy of Form X. 793.

The Blasphemy Drill's getting slacker and slacker
Free Thought is becoming alarmingly free,
And I'll be the only organised atheist
Between the Bug and the big Black Sea.”

Ours, ours is the key O desolate crier,
The golden key to what ills distress you
Left without ever a God to judge you,
Lost without even a Man to oppress you.

Look west, look west, to the Land of Profits,
To the old gold marts, and confess it then
How greatly your great propaganda prospers
When left to the methods of Business Men.

Ah, Mammon is mightier than Marx in making
A goose-step order for godless geese,
And snobs know better than mobs to measure
Where God shall flourish and God shall cease.

Lift up your heart in the wastes Slavonian,
Let no Red Sun on your wrath go down;
There are millions of very much organised atheists
In the Outer Circle of London town.