Like the sheep in the shambles that bleed,
Like rubbish that roars in the draft,
We are slain on the altar of Greed
And burned to the image of Graft.

By wreck, and explosion, and fire,
By swindling, and thieving, and traps,
We are robbed—that a stock may go higher;
We die—lest a dividend lapse.

A wink, and a jest, and a fee,
And the State's whole duty is met
Created for slaughter were we;
How dare we ask more than we get?

So we scream for an agonized hour
In the smoke and the steam and the flame;
And the State drops a tear, and a flower;
“God willed it—who, who was to blame?”

But the sleek, idle money-lord thieves;
And the vampire broods fat in his den;
So the dollars pour in, what are lives?
So the gold gathers fast, what are men?