The devil strip, where bullets zipp, The narrow neutral band Where man to man they fight and plan To win that "No Man's Land"; Here Jim would go to hunt the foe, He thought it only fun, And that day lost that couldn't boast Another slaughtered Hun. His awful deeds so say the creeds, Jim's bright young manhood marred; His health was sound, he got no wound, But sin his spirit scarred. Some lost their health, some lost their wealth, Of all war took its toll, Some lost their life in bloody strife, Jim only lost his soul. THE ORGY OF THOR The war god calls, whate'er befalls His orders must be filled, Though work may stop in mine and shop, And farms may lie untilled. At his command each human hand Must toil to pay the price In coal, or meat, or wool, or wheat, Oil, cotton, corn or rice. From pole to pole he takes control Of land, and air, and tide, Then death and dearth fill all the earth, And hell's gate opens wide. Fierce robber bands, o'er desert sands No white man ever saw, Bring all their spoil, with endless toil, To fill the monster's maw. O'er ice and snow the huskies go, Beneath the northern star, And gather toll, a scanty dole, To pay the god of war. From out the States go mighty freights Of cotton, corn and oil; From West to East, to feed the beast, The people save and toil. The West's astir, the binders whirr Around the settler's shack; The threshers hum, lest winter come Before the wheat's in sack. The bullocks strain on loaded wain, Piled high with bales of wool, A season's clip from shed to ship; The cargo must be full. The drivers swear, the bulls by pair Plunge panting through the dust, Like things accurst they die of thirst The war gods say they must. Where battle fields dread harvests yield The war god's revels be, Where blood runs red, he counts the dead, And shrieks and howls in glee. With fiendish laughs, he fiercely quaffs The precious crimson tide; He'll drink his fill, nor rest until His blood lust's satisfied. 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.