Classic Poem

Not your martyrs anointed of heaven —
The ages are red where they trod —
But the Hunted — the world's bitter leaven —
Who smote at your imbecile God —

A being to pander and fawn to,
To propitiate, flatter and dread
As a thing that your souls are in pawn to,
A Dealer who traffics the dead;

A Trader with greed never sated,
Who barters the souls in his snares,
That were trapped in the lusts he created,
For incense and masses and prayers —

They are crushed in the coils of your halters;
'Twere well — by the creeds ye have nursed —
That ye send up a cry from your altars,
A mass for the Martyrs Accursed;

A passionate prayer for reprieval
For the Brotherhood not understood —
For the Heroes who died for the evil,
Believing the evil was good.

To the Breakers, the Bold, the Despoilers,
Who dreamed of a world over-thrown ...
They who died for the millions of toilers —
Few — fronting the nations alone!

— To the Outlawed of men and the Branded,
Whether hated or hating they fell —
I pledge the devoted, red-handed,
Unfaltering Heroes of Hell!