Faint-hearted folk forever seek our program to retouch
And will insist, when e'er they speak, we do demand too much.
'Tis passing strange yet I declare such statements cause me mirth
For our demands most modest are: we only want the Earth.
The labor fakers full of guile base doctrines ever teach,
And while they bleed the rank and file tame moderation preach.
Yet in their respite we'll see the day when with sword in its girth
Labor shall march in full array to seize its own, the Earth.
Our masters—all a godly crew whose hearts throb for the poor—
Their sympathies assure us too, if our demands were fewer.
Most generous souls—but please observe what they enjoy from birth
Is all we ever had the nerve to ask, that is, the Earth.