When the Leaves Come Out/Slaves, to the Slaughter!
SLAVES, TO THE SLAUGHTER!
The drums roll forth their summons,
The war-like bugles thrill,
From here and there and everywhere
The slaves are given arms to bear
Some other slaves to kill.
Each one must do his "duty"—
Must find warm blood to spill;
For "wrong" or "right," with dread or spite,
Although HE has no cause to fight;—
It is his master's will.
He leaves his wife or mother,
He learns to march and drill,
For wise men say, "Ah, haste the day
When you can stab and shoot and slay—
God bless you while—YOU KILL!"
They praise him in the papers
With patriotic swill;
They dress him in a gaudy suit
And teach him how to aim and shoot,
Then send him forth to—KILL.
The "lawful" zealots laud him,
(Their guarded codes are nil)
In accents loud they tell the crowd
That "lawful" murder is allowed;
It IS NO CRIME TO KILL.
He marches down the highway,
The cheers ring loud and shrill;
With deadly weapons in his hand
He leaves "his own dear native land"
Some corpse strewn trench to fill.
They lead him to the "enemy"
To prove his warlike skill;
He knows not who, he knows not why.
But some poor slave has got to die
For he is there—TO KILL.
Beneath his masters' banner,
Before his masters' hill,
Unto his masters' god he'll pray
(Slave seeking courage slaves to slay)
And aid "divine" to kill.
Then comes MACHINE MADE MURDER . .
The strongest hearts are still . . .
And many a slave has found a grave
In gory sod or a crimson wave—
YEA, OF HIS OWN SWEET WILL.
The workers have THEIR struggle—
Their war to wage—until
It comes to pass the workingclass
Beneath its OWN red flag shall mass,
The world with joy to fill.
Unite! unite! for your own fight,
In mine and shop and mill;
How better far such battles are
Than all the streaming ways of war
Where slaves fight slaves TO KILL!