It’s an act of man,
But not quite his favourite act:
The bloody horrid act of war.
On the streets,
The dirty scoundrel-infested streets,
The people, filled with hunger, mill fruitlessly,
A heartbeat away from eating their foiled dreams.
Their leaders cheat them needlessly
Offering black almonds and chicory
Though they dearly deserve mercy
Crumbs and flour they ration daily;
Not a morsel falling to the sewer rats;
But the rats in the house of lords,
They want — as always — only for hearts.
It is the hunger of a hundred hands,
Isn’t it, St. Remian?
Look at the hills that once rooted trees,
Feel for the people’s fallow hearts,
And say, who has bankrupted these?
They’ve been evicted from the commons
And the squares.
They’ve but one hope now
Come dear comet, come;
They stumble, every one,
Light, for all, the way.