Industrial Workers of the World

From early dawn till twilight grey,
One Bill Magee, a working plug,
Toiled for his boss, and oft he'd say, -
He was that sort of mug,
"At honest work I feel I'm free"
Some quaint ideas had Bill Magee.

With barren brain and muscles strong,
By sweat and blood his crust he'd earn;
But why he worked so hard and long,
He never asked or tried to learn;
"For what the hell," said Bill Magee
"Do I know of philosophy?”

Of joy and gladness, light and love,
Or music, pictures, books or song,
These gracious gifts from gods above,
To his dull world did not belong;
"Such things as these, " said Bill Magee,
"Were meant for better folk than me."

And when a man whose blood was red,
Belonging to the rebel clan,
Explained the way the bosses bled
The brainless, honest workingman;
"I leave such things," said Bill Magee,
"To blokes with wiser heads than me."

He thought that all Magees were born
And placed upon this sinful earth
To eat the husks and leave the corn
For people of superior birth.
"This rebel talks' no good to me,
"A man must work," said Bill Magee.

Yet if a man should buy a gun,
And blow Magee to smithereens.
’Twould do no good - he's only one,
And not the worst, by any means.
For in this world the Bill Magees
Swarm thick, like maggots do in cheese.

Jack O'Neill