Poem: ‘Points for Patriots’
Breathes there a man with soul so dead —
Some modern slave at factory gate
Who never to himself hath said,
In cynic bitterness and hate:
“This is my own, my native land”
Breathes there a man with soul so dead —
A numbered hand in a factory hell
Who never to himself hath said,
When hurried to toil by the factory bell:
“This is my own, my native land”?
Breathes there a man with soul so dead
Mocked by flaunted wealth and power
Who never to himself hath said,
As he sold himself for sixpence an hour:
“This is my own, my native land”?
F.