A TOAST

Not your martyrs anointed of heaven —

The ages are red where they trod —

But the Hunted — the world's bitter leaven —

Who smote at your imbecile God —

A being to pander and fawn to,

To propitiate, flatter and dread

As a thing that your souls are in pawn to,

A Dealer who traffics the dead;

A Trader with greed never sated,

Who barters the souls in his snares,

That were trapped in the lusts he created,

For incense and masses and prayers —

They are crushed in the coils of your halters;

‘ Twere well — by the creeds ye have nursed —

That ye send up a cry from your altars,

A mass for the Martyrs Accursed;

A passionate prayer from reprieval

For the Brotherhood not understood —

For the Heroes who died for the evil,

Believing the evil was good.

To the Breakers, the Bold, the Despoilers,

Who dreamed of a world over-thrown...

They who died for the millions of toilers —

Few — fronting the nations alone!

— To the Outlawed of men and the Branded,

Whether hated or hating they fell —

I pledge the devoted, red-handed,

Unfaltering Heroes of Hell!