Ho! Ye who mourn the serried ranks that mould
On fens of Flanders, hills of Picardy,
Who rail at king or kaiser, and with-hold
The curse I covet as my credit fee;
I am the Slayer, I
The prophet of duress;
Kings fall, and tyrants die
To rumble of the Press!
Ho! Ye who mourn that youth with poignant eyes
Should stare askance at those who granted birth,
Who seek the subtle alchemist of lies
Transmuting plenty into bitter dearth;
I am the Answer, I
The Artifex of thought;
Men welcome or deny
As I have banned or taught.
Ho! Ye who grieve o’er labour dispossessed
While leisure garners profit from its plight
And wonder why the fallen and oppressed
Are blind and senseless to their corporate might;
I am the reason, I
The pander-priest of Gold;
Men cringe, or men defy,
According as they’re told!
Hail! Ye who minister at travail pain
As Freedom gropes from out the womb of Time;
And seek a weapon ‘gainst the frenzied train
That wills to thwart your surgery sublime;
Take me, and I atone
My years of wantoness,
And unto you alone
Shall testify the Press!
(Burnett A. Ward)
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Based on Topics: Man Poems, Mind Poems, Time Poems, Kings & Queens Poems, Thought & Thinking Poems, Gold Poems, Lies & Deceit Poems, Birth Poems, Reasoning Poems, Prophets & Prophecies PoemsBased on Keywords: alchemist, fens, slayer, duress, transmuting, corporate, picardy, with-hold, wantoness, artifex