Protest, Resistance and Revolution

A hungry mob is an angry mob.

And hey Mr. Cop Ain’t got no birth certificate on me now

Slave driver, the table is turn. Catch a fire so you can get burn.

The pump don’t work ’Cause the vandals took the handles.

Come you masters of war You that build all the guns You that build the death planes You that build the big bombs You that hide behind walls You that hide behind desks I just want you to know I can see through your masks

Denounce the government and embrace the flag. Hope to live in that free republic for which it stands.

America free Tom Mooney America save the Spanish Loyalists America Sacco & Vanzetti must not die America I am the Scottsboro boys.

Springtime for Hitler and Germany, Deutschland is happy and gay. We’re moving to a faster pace, Look out, here comes the Master Race!

To hurt the Negro and avoid the Jew Is the curriculum.

I take the word Europe Or the word death And tear them into tiny pieces; I scatter them at your feet.

Let us have madness openly, O men Of my generation. Let us follow The footsteps of this slaughtered age.

“I will not kiss your f.ing flag”

Like men we’ll face the murderous, cowardly pack, Pressed to the wall, dying, but fighting back!

If we must die, let it not be like hogs Hunted and penned in an inglorious spot.

I should be proud to have my memory graced, but only if the monument be placed… here, where I endured three hundred hours in line before the implacable iron bars.

Who will remember, passing through this gate, The unheroic dead who fed the guns? Who shall absolve the foulness of their fate— Those doomed, conscripted, unvictorious ones?

Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot! A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot. Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again! The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart 5 ; the center cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Was it for this the wild geese spread The gray wing upon every tide; For this that all that blood was shed, For this Edward Fitzgerald died, And Robert Emmet and Wolfe Tone, All that delirium of the brave? Romantic Ireland’s dead and gone, It’s with O’Leary in the grave.

Little Tin Gods on Wheels.

Bow, bow, ye lower middle classes! Bow, bow, ye tradesmen, bow, ye masses.

Come, friends, who plow the sea, Let’s vary piracee With a little burglaree. 1

They are slaves who fear to speak For the fallen and the weak.

“Who touches a hair of yon gray head Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.