Il Duce—The Brute
Tell all the world about the crime,
Of Roman might against the right:
Oh tell it now, in every clime,
The deeds as dark as darkest night:
From Hell the thought of conquest came
To Italy's most crafty son,
Duce Mussolini is his name,
And he a Devil's crown has won.
With all the elements of God
Intended for man's blessed use,
He tore men's flesh and soaked the sod
With blood—thus gifts of God abuse.
A man of savage Roman tribe,
II Duce has done his brutal worse;
To him will Roman fate ascribe
The curse that comes in even course.
Tell Abyssinians now to rise
Against Italians' mailed fists,
And never sleep till each man dies,
If he our freedom still resists.
Of Roman might against the right:
Oh tell it now, in every clime,
The deeds as dark as darkest night:
From Hell the thought of conquest came
To Italy's most crafty son,
Duce Mussolini is his name,
And he a Devil's crown has won.
With all the elements of God
Intended for man's blessed use,
He tore men's flesh and soaked the sod
With blood—thus gifts of God abuse.
A man of savage Roman tribe,
II Duce has done his brutal worse;
To him will Roman fate ascribe
The curse that comes in even course.
Tell Abyssinians now to rise
Against Italians' mailed fists,
And never sleep till each man dies,
If he our freedom still resists.
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