From The Voice of the People, November 12, 1914.
Flies may be neat and wipe their feet:
I will admit all that.
They also take your pie or cake
And use it as a mat.
These pesky pests, unbidden guests,
In wiping their soiled soles,
Can’t use the floor; they much prefer
Your flaky breakfast rolls.
The tribe of flies, it really tries,
It seems, to give offense.
It is not meet to be so neat
At other folks’ expense.
From The Voice of the People, July 14, 1914. By Lone Wolf.
The miners brave in Ludlow town,
By scabby gunmen were shot down,
When hunger’s pangs made them rebel
Against their daily, living hell.
Oh! Workers, rally to their aid!
Honor the stand the miners made!
Shall all their efforts be in vain
And gunmen’s bullets end their pain?
The gunmen poured in by the score
To welter in the miner’s gore;
With rifle, torch and Gatling gun,
These murderous thugs did riot run.
They murdered babes and women, too,
Those hell-hounds, cursed, the pirate crew;
While Oily John, with smile benign
Said, “God is good to me and mine.”
“I own this country,” said John D.;
“Back to the mines and slave for me!
If you dare go on strike for bread
My brave Militia will feed you lead.
“I own the land, I own the mines,
Rail, steel and oil, the sun that shines;
I own the Press, the Church, the State,
From Mexico to the Golden Gate.”
The miners now, in bitter strife
Are fighting hard to maintain life.
Come workers now, from every land,
And give our Comrades there a hand.
Let Revolution’s dawn awake!
The world for the workers’ take!
Let “Colorado” be our cry;
The time has come to win or die.
From The Voice of the People, May 21, 1914. By Covington Hall.
Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t try to leave the clods
To wander off in Eden with the children of the gods;
Don’t worry when the hunters hush the nest-notes of the dove,
Nor fret when gold is offered for the broken lute of love.
Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t leave the Land of Trade
To seek the laughing waters and the woodland’s mystic shade;
Don’t grieve because they leave you and don’t answer when they call—
Their tongues are tipt with honey—they are lotus eaters all.
Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t watch the star that gleams
To guide you up the mountain to the throneroom of your dreams;
Don’t turn aside to catch the light that showers from life’s wings,
Lest you forget the ledger is the holiest of things.
Don’t listen to the fairies, son, don’t be a fool and quit
The sacred House of Dollars just at Music’s feet to sit;
Don’t heed them when they whisper, “in your higher longings trust,”
For all except the cashbox is as ashes and as dust.