Classic Poem

THE STRIKE

A T last some morning, as the signal sounds, not a workman responds;
Groups of sullen men or scowling women halt on the corners;
The Labor Union delegates harangue in the central hall.

Substitutes unused to the work, unskilled strike-breakers are hired,
Shouts of " Scab " are heard; threats of violence break into acts;
Stones and bricks fly hurtling; there 's a crashing of glass;
Fire breaks out; costly machines are ruined; Labor exults in the damage.
Half-hearted come the police; a shot stings the air; an innocent spectator,
Struck in the head, falls backward; the ambulance with clanging gong dashes up.
At home the children are crying for bread, but the stern-eyed parents,
Feeling that they have a cause to stand for, listen unmoved.