KING MAMMON
Attended by his glittering train,
King Mammon drives his chariot by,
Prostrate and bleeding, on the plain,
His crushed, yet fawning, subjects lie.
A mighty monarch—oh, ho! ho! is he!
His hand shuts like a hasp.
He dictates to “the Powers that be”;
The nations tremble in his grasp.
For him “the lilies of the field”
Their sweetest, sacred incense yield.
He labors not—why should he toil?
(For him the servile millions moil!)
A tyrant old—ah, ha! ha! he is;
He rules the earth, he rules the seas,
The rolling planets he would chain;
He robs the farmers of their grain;
He cheats the worker of his wage;
He whelms the peasant in his rage;
The merchant’s ruin swells his gain;
Beneath his chariot wheels profane
Ten thousand wights each year are slain.
Kneel, then, ye hosts! Grovel on the plain!
King Mammon is driving by.
Behold! Thugs, cut-throats—in his train!
Hands up! Yield! Deliver! or ye shall die.