KING MAMMON

Attended by his glittering train, King Mammon drives his chariot by, Prostrate and bleeding, on the plain, His crushed, yet fawning, subjects lie. A mighty monarch—oh, ho! ho! is he! His hand shuts like a hasp. He dictates to “the Powers that be”; The nations tremble in his grasp. For him “the lilies of the field” Their sweetest, sacred incense yield. He labors not—why should he toil? (For him the servile millions moil!) A tyrant old—ah, ha! ha! he is; He rules the earth, he rules the seas, The rolling planets he would chain; He robs the farmers of their grain; He cheats the worker of his wage; He whelms the peasant in his rage; The merchant’s ruin swells his gain; Beneath his chariot wheels profane Ten thousand wights each year are slain. Kneel, then, ye hosts! Grovel on the plain! King Mammon is driving by. Behold! Thugs, cut-throats—in his train! Hands up! Yield! Deliver! or ye shall die.