Motes And Beams

We condemn, with hot curses, the Hun For his piracy, perjury, pride, For his nameless atrocities done, For the ten million victims that died. Then we'll lift holy hands to the skies, When the day of our victory comes, While pale children, with piteous cries, Starve for bread in the slime of our slums.

We despite the degenerate Yank With his blood-spattered idol of gold, Who, his birthright, for cash in the bank, And political pottage has sold. Then we send our poor boys to the war With a prayer that they keep themselves clean, And we purchase a shining new car, Praying harder for cheap gasoline.

We detest the false Bulgars and Greeks; They must learn to be true to their friends; They have proved themselves traitors and sneaks, Using war for their own selfish ends. But our grafters their pockets may fill, While valiantly waving the flag, Caring nothing who settles the bill, If they only get off with the swag.

We abhor the unspeakable Turk, For his orgies of murder and shame, His detestable devilish work Done in honor of Allah's fair name; Then we pray as the Pharisee prayed, While afar off the publican stood, But forget the Creator has made All the children of men of one blood.