<h3> <SPAN name="blood"></SPAN> BLOOD AND WINE </h3>
<p>(A certain little renegade of the Revolution chants a
hymn of praise to his erstwhile enemy.)</p>
<p class="poem">
Behold! The helots of the land<br/>
Are cowed beneath thy iron fist;<br/>
They are too dumb to understand—<br/>
Too tame and spineless to resist.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
Victorious one! Against thy gains<br/>
These chattels cannot, dare not rise;<br/>
Stifle the thought within their brains<br/>
And rule . . . with bayonets and lies.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
So may thy sons, with greed uncurbed,<br/>
Their children's children rule again;<br/>
Aye, rule with iron, undisturbed,<br/>
The all-prolific sons of men.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
What matters that ten million died<br/>
To give thy lust a dwelling place?<br/>
Does not thy Terror set aside<br/>
The ancient freedom of the race?<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
What matters that the peasant's plow<br/>
Bites at a soil baptised with red?<br/>
Are not thy bloody dollars now<br/>
More myriad than the myriad dead?<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
That in charred cities, wan with pain,<br/>
War-desolated mothers live,<br/>
While lips of babies tug in vain<br/>
At breasts that have no milk to give?<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
Or that beneath thy battered walls,<br/>
Cursed with the eloquence of hell,<br/>
Black Want to red Rebellion calls . . .?<br/>
Heed not, I tell thee all is well!<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
Heed not! Have vine-clad maidens sing<br/>
And serve thee scented wine and gore;<br/>
Laugh! Glut thyself to vomiting,<br/>
And hiccough, screaming still for more.<br/></p>
<p class="poem">
What of the Men against the gate,<br/>
Black-massed and sullen, gaunt and lean . . .<br/>
Like thee they crave one thing to hate.<br/>
Be glad . . . and whet thy guillotine!<br/></p>
<p><br/><br/><br/></p>
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