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Poem	I am the Cannon King, behold! I perish on a throne of gold. With forest far and turret high, Renowned and rajah-rich am I. My father was, and his before, With wealth we owe to war on war; But let no potentate be proud . . . There are no pockets in a shroud. By nature I am mild and kind, To gentleness and ruth inclined; And though the pheasants over-run My woods I will not touch a gun. Yet while each monster that I forge Thunders destruction form its gorge. Death's whisper is, I vow, more loud . . . There are no pockets in a shroud. My time is short, my ships at sea Already seem like ghosts to me; My millions mock me I am poor As any beggar at my door. My vast dominion I resign, Six feet of earth to claim is mine, Brooding with shoulders bitter-bowed . . . There are no pockets in a shroud. Dear God, let me purge my heart, And be of heaven's hope a part! Flinging my fortune's foul increase To fight for pity, love and peace. Oh that I could with healing fare, And pledged to poverty and prayer Cry high above the cringing crowd: "Ye fools! Be not Mammon cowed . . . There are no pockets in a shroud."
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