The Parasites - a poem

The Parasites

In every contest between Capital and Labor, I am with Labor and against Capital first, last, and all the time. And if you ask me what percentage of the actual product of labor capital should receive, I cry loudly, "None, damn it, none!" But be assured that I class all worthy productive or creative effort as labor, and summed up, my contention simply is that any person who does not work at all, should not eat at all, excepting of course invalids and children.

    Met a fellow the other day,
    As I was roaming along the way,
    They called him a radical, socialist, red,
    Lowbrowed wretch who had been misled.
    He talked of the workers, talked of their cause,
    Talked of the country, talked of its laws
    An old young man, though tattered and frayed,
    He was wise to the way the game was played;
    None of your whiskered, bomb-throwing kind,
    He had some ideas at large in his mind;
    Dreamed of a day when his kind would be free—
    Here's some of the line he handed to me:

    Imagine a world of a hundred men,
    And suppose they were workers every one;
    God gave us the soil, God gives us the rain,
    And for little work God gives us the grain.
    A hundred cry "Clothing!" a hundred cry "Meat!"
    But fifty work and a hundred eat.
    If the idle half and their fathers and mothers
    Would all go to work, they'd be little work-brothers,
    But Jones and Smith and Green and Brown
    Do all the work, while the rest stand round.
    What of the other fifty per cent?
    Jones and company pay them rent;
    But 'twas Jones and company built the whole town—
    I'm ashamed of you, Jones and Green and Brown.

    Clara Vere de Vere's grandpa
    Was a better thief than your grandma;
    There goes Clara in her car,
    She's kind to the poor as she drives up-street,
    If the poor don't work, Clara don't eat.
    Who is that with her? Reggie Deluxe,
    His old man was a prince of crooks—
    Two helpless, hopeless, pitiful tools,
    Though they toured the world and been through schools;
    Producing nothing, everything bought—
    The day they die the world will lose naught.
    Your little bootblack, untutored, untaught,
    Has his use in the world, while these others have not.

    From Clara's shoes to her new French gown,
    Not a thing does Clara own;
    Madame Dupré makes her suits,
    Paris workmen build her boots;
    Her hats are made by working girls,
    Her maid Nanette combs out her curls,
    This same Nanette puts on her clothes
    And pedicures her little toes.
    Her lunch is served by 'Enry 'Awes,
    She hustles for neither meat nor sauce,
    But discusses the servant problem—
    "Really, it's hard to bother with them,
    This most annoying servant class,"
    She remarks to Mrs. Van Dam Ass.

    Beasts in the jungle, bums on the street,
    All must hustle that they may eat;
    Fish in the sea and birds in the air,
    Must hunt around for a living fare.
    Nature for naught has naught to give—
    You have to work if you want to live;
    But Clara and her useless kin
    Neither sow nor do they spin,
    For they have gold—oh, they don't need to —
    Yet gold will neither clothe nor feed you.
    The world is nicely arranged for them
    Who live by the efforts of other men—
    Live by the sweat of the poor and weak,
    Then marvel that men turn bolshevik.

    Call me a socialist, radical, red,
    Turning to me the old guy said,
    "A lazy, disinterested, radical dub,
    I may be all that, but I rustle my grub;
    And I'm taking no job in your factory or mine,
    I'm off the stuff, it's out of my line;
    But I never beg and I never steal,
    I do an odd job when I want a meal.
    Maybe you cannot see it my way,
    But that's all I get if I work all day.
    If the deal was square, I'd do my bit,
    If all would work, I'd never quit;
    But I'm keeping no Claras—aw, what's the use?
    It's her kind cry "production"—well, let 'em produce."

Dawn Fraser

 Out of My House. 
No Child of Mine Will Be a Boy Scout

My Father was a carpenter,
Who worked hard every day.
His back was bowed, his hands were hard,
His locks were thin and grey.
That was many years ago.
The Locals then were small.
And every man who met the Boss
Would touch his hat and crawl.
But Father had a rebel's heart.
And often he told me
Of how he hoped I'd see the day,
When workers would be free.

I went to school each morning.
But most that they taught me
Was how old England licked the world,
And was mistress of the sea.
Of Wolfe and Blake and Nelson,
Half the day they would brag.
And tell how glorious it was
To die beneath some flag.
They would tell us of the Dargia Heights
And of Majuba Hill.
They taught it was a noble act
To kill and kill and kill.

One day we had a visitor
Of military mien.
He had the slickest uniform
We kids had ever seen.
He gave a little lecture
And it was all about
How would we like to go to camp?
And be a Boy Scout?
We would march each day, away, away.
It would be jolly fun.
We would get a pretty uniform
And maybe have a gun.

I ran right home to father
And hopped upon his knee.
I was going to be a scout.
Wasn't he proud of me?
The man would call the teacher said
And fix it up with Dad.
She said she knew each Parent
Would be most proud and glad.
But Daddy didn't hear the news
With any show of pride.
He kind of hugged me tighter
And then he kind of sighed.

One evening I was playing home
With what little friends I had.
The military fellow called
And asked to see my Dad.
But when my Father spied him,
This well dressed Master Scout,
My Father grabbed the poker
And I heard my Father shout.
Out of my house. No child of mine
Will be a Boy Scout.
Out of my house you useless tool
I know what you're about.
The soldier of tomorrow
Is the Boy Scout of today.
Our very blood and bones you'd use
Against us in the fray.
You rob the worker of his child
And dress him like a clown.
You put a gun into his hands,
To shoot his father down.
Give you a child of mine to train?
You take me for a fool.
You keep your hands off me and mine
You capitalist tool.

That military man so grand
Was timid as a mouse.
Last thing I remember,
Father chased him from the house.
And then he took me in his arms
And kissed me once or twice.
I never saw him cross before,
He was always sad but nice.
Before I went to bed each night,
He would tell me stories fine.
And the one he told that evening
Was about the HOMESTEAD MINE.
Somewhere far away, he said,
There was a little town
Where he had seen the soldiers come
And shoot the workers down.

Dawn Fraser

For more of his poems see here