Classic Poem

Man declares a sanctity in a bit of cloth,
But sees not holiness in the miraculous flesh of babes.
" Patriots " bare their heads before a flag,
Which was born for freedom — in rebellion against authority —
But they strike down with clubs those who will not
Bare their heads to tyranny and kneel before Authority.
Pharisees, hypocrites.
Authority, Authority! O Authority!
Maker of misery: holding an iron spear.
The nice garments of the rich are passports to privilege
But the rags of the Poor are friendless.
Holier to me than any flag is the garment of her
Who should be a full-bosomed mother;
More eloquent to me than all banners,
Are the pathetic patches of Labor, disinherited.
I had rather keep in my heart
The sacraments of Freedom
Than dull my soul with blind idolatry of a bit of cloth.
False symbol of a freedom which has died.
Why should I, who soon will drink
The comfortable cup,
Shower rose-petal words upon the backs
Of toil-bowed men and women?
Shall I twitter a morning song
While millions are sunk in darkness,
Shall I sing the rhapsodies of love
While my unhappy sisters barter
For bitter bread and brittle pleasure,
That sacred fire, more elder than the Sun?
I will respect no idols.
I will examine all things.
I will fear nothing;
No — not the tyranny of Government
Nor the fist of " Patriots "
Fearless I will grip the hands of the gods and cry;
" Hail, Comrades, I am your fellow. "