Dead are the sleeping men,
Dead by their marching drone.
Awakened bare by a bare word--
As a bare Fruit of a seasonal branch
Bare of it's yellow leaves--
Bare is the shrilling word
Of Death, frozen silent on the wind;
(Lucid men sing of dreams,
Sleepers dream of singing;
Lo, Dead Men do not dream at all,
Nor sing within dreams for it cuts their tongue.)
Wild-eyed, bare sabres, land
On bosoms made from Lust,
Glint Silver in a wistful hand:
"Make ready the cannon!"
Cries the Noblest of Muck,
Scrounge to face'em when rest'him dies:
A trial gun and the saving crumbs pluck,
And the naked ape sighs
On the World's crank, "Yo! Ho!"
As the call of Death wakes the cock.
Blast brigades of Dead Men,
As a sabre splays reddened mead
From a grayish globe spurting steam, laying
Dreamers beneath as seed;
Scythed weeds for a crooning plot,
Though, Dead Mean sing no Songs:
…And the dead men are the lost men;
The working men of Nature's slumber;
These irate men with pirate gin
Grow cold in their waste and plunder.
But with a wistful grin and wishful eye
They throe and take for Pride,
And the wistful cringe is a fleeting Sin
Upon the beggar who's ready to die...
But dead are the sleeping
Men; heaving more debt for bread.
Their scaly yearns as sorrow's clash
Dismay; lost by lows of a deeper rung,
And with a croaking lung
On an awkward bier,
They speak, "Silence," and no one hears.
With a dying tongue they speak their greatest word;
Of Dead Men dying, no one's ever heard.