THE Kings are dying! In blood and flame
Their sun is setting to rise no more!
They have played too long at the ancient game
Of their bluer blood and the bolted door.
Now the blood of their betters is on their hands--
The blood of the peasant, the child, the maid
And there are no waters in all the lands
Can bathe them clean of the dark stain laid.
They have sinned in malice and craven fear-
For the sake of their tinsel have led us on
To the hate-built trench and the death-drop sheer,
But the day will come when the Kings are gone.
The Kings are dying! Beat, O drums,
The world-wide roll of the democrat!
O bugles, cry out for the day that comes
When the Kings that were shall be marveled at!
W. D. Eaton, ed. Great Poems of the World War. Chicago: T.S. Denison & Company, 1922.