What burning, tight'ning anger do I feel
Against these petty leaders of mankind.
If anger was itself a thing of steel
How hot would fly the bullets from my mind.
Blast them for their pity-playing ways;
Blast them for their calls to sacrifice;
Blast the smiling lying of their days,
The hate of reason----their man-denying vice.
Yea, blast, and sharply blast, obliterate!
Return them to the darkness of their fate!
Let truth come quick and stick them in the dust
(They haven't earned one light above the ground),
Then let them gum the dregs of powder-lust
And mouth their mothy nothings of no sound.
Copyright © Brian Faulkner