Revolutions

Nowt here but death and graveyard mud,
the rot of yore an’ dried up blood.
Who'd dally here 'mongst gory tales,
of dank the air ’twixt fetid gales?

A wicked place, a cur would cuss,
of bloated flesh an' reekin' pus.
Ye, tarry not, pay heed, make haste!
Be nothin' here but dead men’s waste.

Cut down by crown an’ church for God;

the peasant’s plight beneath the sod.

Who fought with forks ’gainst sword an’ spear,

in hunger roused, put down in fear.

We, too, like them, deprived for sure,
came into be an’ nothin’ more.
Make do as done, to do without,
mid them who preach yet proffer nowt.

To be ’till death, ’till death we trust,
our faith to starve us into dust.
For tales do tell 'bout dusts of yore,
who harkened to, do hark no more.

Of preachers once, of saints? Do tell;
done preachin' fear, the flames of hell.
Out yon, where we in hungers, why?
To be, be damned, to starve an’ die?

Be damned for what? “No more!” Me says.
“To arms!” Me shouts, “An' warrin' ways!”
“Like gods, we'll gorge the plundered wares,
get fattened up on what was theirs.”

As on to us, in like reply,
the ills of war, to flee or die.
Give rise to them to do without
an’ we as them when proffered nowt.

And let us drink ’till we are drunk,
’till wearied out, abed a bunk.
As they have supped beyond their fill,
so, too, the victors surely will.

For he who wins will tip the scales
an' tip into where he who fails
Where side by side, laid sot by sot,
as one, the other in the rot.

Who'd linger here where bloat the dead,
where we became the swine we bled.
We pilgrims once, poor honest men,
when fattened up were just like them.