O' Mammon

'Money prints your Bibles, money builds your churches, money sends your missionaries, and money pays your preachers, and you would not have many of them, either, if you did not pay them.’

Yes Christians of today

Philadelphia’s freedom

betrayed to a

Con-well played.

A hundred and ten years of official

slavery now; your banks of debt &

your curse of gold ever quickening

your destined disaster.

As if your industrial entertainment

halls could purchase you forgiveness of

the ‘Gospel of Prosperity.’

Your cornucopia of gold

and houses upon the hills

the hills of countless Indian mounds

your tank Sherman declares,

‘all who cling to their hunting ground

will be killed';

aaaaitiitieiieie

he says, ‘the more we can kill this year,

the less that has to be killed the next.’

O Lord the red man had his fill and Sheridan

ran the red man down

even the Buffalos were now mighty

ebon soldiers that run the red man

into the ground.

Aye indeed mighty ebon buffalos

now riding round on a bunch of

asses with their 40 ‘in hand’. . .

watching the shiny rims spin.

Wake up! Wake up!

Let us cast off this golden rope

the banker man has burdened us with;

lynching us with a golden joke.

Silver & gold / silver and gold

(and of course diamond mines).

Aye, money is power sayeth the man

as Lazarus looks downward

at the rich man’s thirsting hand;

what had he done 4 his

fellow man?

Indeed St. Teresa

tell them mother-daughter-sister

how their love of money is most

un-Christian and criminal,

‘Poverty has not been created by God.

We are the ones who have created poverty'.

Fie and woe upon thee America!!

Your prostitution has corrupted a dream:

having forty drunken buffalos

wearing around the red man’s soul

and now killing for the brown mans'

liquid gold . . .

Laying your wooden and stone idols

in front of every immigrant you meet,

yet the better to foment

the good old fighting mood

for your next economic conquest to reap.

O mysterious number written on thy harlot crown!

The camel jumped through the eye of a needle,

and fell into the blackened pit of a bottomless well.

Your Armageddon: Hell the oil well;

our very bodies, minds, and collective soul

are polluted by the swell . . .

Wake up! Wake up!