Classic Poem

( — When the Leaves Come Out — )

The hills are very bare and cold and lonely;
I wonder what the future months will bring.
The strike is on — our strength would win, if only —
O, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!

They've got us down — their martial lines enfold us;
They've thrown us out to feel the winter's sting,
And yet, by God, those curs can never hold us,
Nor could the dogs of hell do such a thing!

It isn't just to see the hills beside me
Grow fresh and green with every growing thing;
I only want the leaves to come and hide me,
To cover up my vengeful wandering.

I will not watch the floating clouds that hover
Above the birds that warble on the wing;
I want to use this GUN from under cover —
O, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!

You see them there, below, the damned scab-herders!
Those puppets on the greedy Owners' String;
We'll make them pay for all their dirty murders —
We'll show them how a starveling's hate can sting!

They riddled us with volley after volley;
We heard their speeding bullets zip and ring,
But soon we'll make them suffer for their folly —
O, Buddy, how I'm longing for the spring!