II

Song for the New Machiavellis

Sweep the snow from your door
With a brush quick and wild
For if you should find there
A frozen child
Your eyes must not soften
Your hands itch to hold
It's forbidden to rescue
The frozen by cold

When sheep call for pasture
And break down your fences
Cry Wolf from the grasslands
Till panic commences
If miners' hands whiten
Stretch out for more bread
Use grenades to light fires
And feed them with lead

The battle for living
Is harsh but complete
The place for your servant
Is under your feet
Sweep the dead from the door
If others should shirk
Have them judged for a slight
On your freedom to work.