A catafalque beneath St. Stephen’s spire;
Tensed mobs, that sob and surge with fearful breath;
Wrath of the criminals who paid his hire;
And — kings and priests who mourn a gangster’s death!
Oh, town of ancient glories, checkered fame,
Gay folk, who weeping, laugh, and sing through pain,
Freedom shall pen his chronicle of shame,
Though priests and princes mourn a gangster slain.
Short moons ago his hands were crimson-dyed
In blood of folk who claimed their babies’ bread;
By rope and shrapnel, rape and lash they dried,
No priests or princes mourned the workers’ dead!
Hate did he sow; he reaped the fruit of hate;
Perjured his faith, by treachery he fell;
Time shall record him weaver of his fate,
Though priests and princes light his soul to hell.
A gangster lies in state in Stephen’s pile;
And honest men may naively wonder why,
Since wolf devouring wolf makes shepherds smile,
Should priests and princes weep when cut-throats die!
(Burnett A. Ward)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Time Poems, Death & Dying Poems, Pain Poems, Smiling Poems, Fate & Destiny Poems, Belief & Faith Poems, Anger Poems, Fame Poems, Liberty & Freedom Poems, Hell PoemsBased on Keywords: chronicle, perjured, checkered, mobs, tensed, gangster, catafalque, crimson-dyed, cut-throats, naïvely