University of Virginia Library

THE BIG POT OF SOCIALISM.

“La Propriété, c'est le vol.”

Let us be logical, sir, if you please,
Let us be logical first,
Calmly discussing the case at our ease
Just with a rational thirst.
You are a Socialist, sir—very good;
I may observe, I am not;
Property, land with its corn and its wood,
Money and honey and all that you could,
Whether you ought not or whether you should,
Palace and labourer's plot,
Served up with ignorance hot—
All that for ages has privately stood,
Proof against Radical shot—
Even the Monk, I suppose with his hood—
You would pitch into the Pot.
In they go tumbling—O, let us commence,
None of your shabby reserves or pretence,
Only be logical now—
Vestals with virginal brow,
Dives in purple with pickings immense,
Hodge with his acres and cow;
Sinners and saints and the Gentile and Jew,
All must souse into the General Stew,
None must have luxuries, down with the beer!
While one poor brother is starved,
Cut up the capons, distribute the cheer—
What if the landlord is carved?
Castle and cottage both mix in the pottage,
Hovel in ruins and Hall,
Wise men like Platos and tiny potatoes—
Plenty of room for them all.
Kindly remember that nothing is left,
Nothing to claim as your own;
Every possession is simply a theft,
If it may still be unknown;
Taken perhaps by some rascally Lord
Ages ago against right,
When there existed no rule but the sword
And the one tenure was Might.
Empty your pockets of treasures and purse,
Watch and the trinkets of gold;
Do not forget selfish hoards are a curse,
Even if centuries old!
Never suppose you can chalk off a line
Really Protection by name,
Though you may choose to demur and repine—
Manfully play out the game.
Yes, your dear labours as well as your neighbour's,
Product of brain or the hand,
Equally grateful a pan or a plateful
Yield to the public demand.
Make no exceptions of jewels or clay—
Nothing—howe'er it be got;
No “moral minimum,” no private pay
Rises from national rot.
Now for your clothing—be logical, pray—
Keep not one leprosy spot;
Strip like a man in the primitive way,
Breeches and all in the Pot!
Do have the courage, I beg, of your creed
Blazoned in glorious crudity,
Proved to the hilt by your personal need;
Who cares for trifles like nudity?
Spare not a rag of your wardrobe, be true,
Sir, to your principles yet;
Grudge not the General Fund what is due,
Cast in your poodle or pet;
In with your pudding and in with your parson,
In with your penny or pound,
In with your patriot playing at arson
Though in the holiest bound.
Let us be logical. In goes the vice,
Long so indulged in and hugged;
Be a brave Socialist, down with the price—
If it's your grandmother jugged.
Yes, that reminds me, relations are nought;
Ties are obstructions that block,
Family fetters have merely been wrought
Just to replenish the Stock.
Children—of course, they belong to the State,
Sentiment goes to the wall;
Ah, and the helpmeet misjoined to your fate,
Now belongs freely to all!
Mine, sir, if thine, and poor tumble-down Dick
Claims with connubial band
Her to whom you would so jealously stick—
Married is she to the Land!
Married to Matthew and married to Mark,
Married to Peter and Paul,
Married to men of the light and the dark
Married (God bless her!) to all!
Those precious darlings too curled and too kissed,
Daintily gartered and gowned,
Now will receive (what they fain would have missed)
Tubbing and scrubbing right round.
O, and your Baby (which follows the Purse)
Each will with emulous wits
Handle and dandle, and awfully nurse
Out of its senses to fits.
Each of us now will be welcome to brush
Each of your treasures at will,
Or if we like with a whipping to hush
Each little lacrymal rill.
They will be combed and corrected and led
Nightly to each little stall,
Comforted, physicked, instructed and fed
Everywhere ever by all.
Hope not by subterfuge yet to defy us,
Think not from duty to swerve,
Playing the part of a false Ananias
Keeping a sop in reserve;
Holding a tit bit away from the Store,
Lips or delights of the shelf,
Something to guzzle alone or adore—
Kisses or cakes for yourself!
Near ones and dear ones, the choicest and chief,
Those of the tenderest lot,
Those who partook of your gladness or grief,
All are condemned to the Pot.
Private taps too you say now are forbidden,
Into one Tap they are thrown;
How then can you retain ever unchidden.
One rosy mouth as your own?
All fingers poke in one general pie,
All are the Hydra-like head,
All are the tail and all brotherly lie
Snoring in one blessed bed.
All eat from one and the same precious plate,
All drink of one common mug,
All are both governed and governing State,
All share the parson and pug.
Make no objections or idle corrections,
Let us be logical, do;
Persons and chattels, though twopenny rattles,
Droned by the devil knows who—
Each whether peg or propriety dress,
Plumps as a part in your catholic mess.
We are advancing—it's well—with the times,
Taking together our ills,
Cant, influenza, our churches and chimes,
Beggaring neighbours by legalized crimes—
Aye, and political pills;
Now let's apportion the bills;
Nothing is sacred in reason or rhymes,
All must partake of all tills.
We are returning to early old founts,
Civilized backward again;
Savage simplicity here only counts,
As the Great People ordain.
Why, my good sir, have you sacrificed friends,
Liberty, justice and pride,
Each to your conscience and Socialist ends—
You yet remaining outside?
Let us be logical, let us be fair
Always to Truth and its kin;
Muse on the happy regenerate air,
When you are boiling within.
Think of your bed-fellows in the same Stew,
Honesty, honour and love,
Empire and Union and faith, with the new
Devilry dancing above;
Bess of the brothel and Sal of the slum
Shouldering Bishop and Peer,
Scrapings of gutter and crossing and scum
Reeking of skittles and beer.
O, it's a wondrous receptacle—this,
Great with class-levelling greed,
Grandly capacious and like the Abyss;
Here's a “solution” indeed.
All things are solved or dissolved—it is one,
All folks are equal and free,
Subjects are sovereigns and all work is done
Jointly and all disagree.
Bless the Big Pot which contains lean and fat,
Capital, labour and Grace
With the last century hit off his bat,
And for the Crofter finds place.
Stir it and feed it with fuel till hot,
Properly heated right through;
Throw in our Royalty too,
Playing decorum or loo,
Welshman and German and Paddy and Scot,
Millionaire's mansion and penury's cot;
Then take a header yourself in the Pot—
I, my dear sir, after you.
Life may be broken—not theories bend,
Let us be logical still to the end.