A bit of topsy-turvy artifice
Goes wandering like a monarch through our streets,
A whiskey-soaked, be-daggered king that meets
To riot for whatever cause there is;
A wayward autocrat, whose services
To earth seem but the deadly plagues he heats;
A potentate of such ignoble feats
As nailed the Saviour to that cross of His.

A sultan whom no bond of law restrains,
From whose injustice there is no appeal;
A king anoint with Satan's sulphur stains
A red and white and black-faced Czar whose heel
America, our continent, profanes, —
And called " The Sovereign People " — for his pains.