Well, this one requires no introduction, does she.
Spin the cord strong.
Twist it well.
Let the driven shuttle fly
In and out the mildewed weft.
Let the brittle threads and dry
Mocking taunt the Weavers deft.
Let them struggle as they will,
Bended back and aching sight,
Till the engine crash the mill,
What’s corrupt, will ne’er weave right.
Gain and loss at last shall meet,
Blighted, frayed, ill-woven cloth
Shall be the merchant’s winding-sheet,
Proudest ermine bed the moth.
O’er the rifle, sword and gun
(Bright and pure beyond their mark),
Yet shall rise the People’s sun,
Red, defiant, o’er the Dark.
Fast – or slow,
Sure is tolled the Tyrant’s Wrong,
Weft and Warp of Long Ago.
Pile the walls strong,
Priest and scribe, and man-made God,
Diplomats and renegades,
Bishop’s mace, and tyrant-rod.
Blood-stained crowns, and war-field spades.
Merchants flinging up the Dice,
Gambling with the people’s Lack.
Prim hypocrisy all nice –
Hunger’s fear, and Prison’s Rack.
Charlatans who raving start
(Eye upon the cushioned throne)
From the people’s bleeding Heart.
Making ladders of Their Own.
Pignied idols raised on high,
Slaves look up, and they – look down,
Making blots upon the sky,
Minstrels, wire-pulled – for renown!
All their rods
Cannot break the True and Strong –
Hell shall breed its Undergods.
To cut a long story short: