 | English Roses |  |
THE MORAL MINIMUM.
Passing from the Living Wage and by some queer transition,
We have reached a further stage right onward to Perdition;
With a growing grandeur in our paper theories and din
Cursing ways refined and slower,
With the aid of fife and drum towards the Moral Minimum
Dropping every day yet lower.
Dying Capital may perish with its golden eggs and goose,
Now the precious things we cherish all are played with fast and loose
Or go dangling in the strangling of the fatal cord and noose;
We are falling downward deeper,
Sentinel alike and sleeper,
With a sombre funeral hum towards the Moral Minimum.
We have reached a further stage right onward to Perdition;
291
Cursing ways refined and slower,
With the aid of fife and drum towards the Moral Minimum
Dropping every day yet lower.
Dying Capital may perish with its golden eggs and goose,
Now the precious things we cherish all are played with fast and loose
Or go dangling in the strangling of the fatal cord and noose;
We are falling downward deeper,
Sentinel alike and sleeper,
With a sombre funeral hum towards the Moral Minimum.
What the final goal of rest is, what the gleam remaining
For our property opprest and idly still complaining,
No one knows and no one cares if forward still the current fares
To its undetermined haven;
While they clip our treasures' sum to speed the Moral Minimum,
Till we are at last clean shaven.
Only pile away the taxes on the sick and suffering land,
To the sullen sound of axes sharpening in the hungry hand,
Till the People on the steeple and the tower in triumph stand;
Fatten more and more the ogress
Or the veilèd death called Progress,
For the feasting of the slum on the Moral Minimum.
For our property opprest and idly still complaining,
No one knows and no one cares if forward still the current fares
To its undetermined haven;
While they clip our treasures' sum to speed the Moral Minimum,
Till we are at last clean shaven.
Only pile away the taxes on the sick and suffering land,
To the sullen sound of axes sharpening in the hungry hand,
Till the People on the steeple and the tower in triumph stand;
Fatten more and more the ogress
Or the veilèd death called Progress,
For the feasting of the slum on the Moral Minimum.
I have but a little lot and troubles often dim it,
And would like a broader plot and can perceive no limit
But my own sweet appetite, which now is almost infinite
In the great and growing scramble.
Why should I not thrust my thumb within the Moral Minimum,
And have vines instead of bramble?
Why not help myself from labours of the fools who heap and toil,
And wax rich upon my neighbour's private hoard and fruitful soil,
With a measure of his pleasure and abounding corn and oil?
Why need I go tamely trudging
And along my millround drudging,
Or look desolate and glum when there's a Moral Minimum?
And would like a broader plot and can perceive no limit
But my own sweet appetite, which now is almost infinite
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Why should I not thrust my thumb within the Moral Minimum,
And have vines instead of bramble?
Why not help myself from labours of the fools who heap and toil,
And wax rich upon my neighbour's private hoard and fruitful soil,
With a measure of his pleasure and abounding corn and oil?
Why need I go tamely trudging
And along my millround drudging,
Or look desolate and glum when there's a Moral Minimum?
When the tiger once set free of human blood has tasted
And the blinded Masses see, the spoiling will be hasted
Fast and faster to the point at which the State is out of joint
And at sixes and at sevens;
Each will want a goodly crumb to be his Moral Minimum,
With new earth and (hell called) heavens.
Ploughs will rust within the furrow and the landlords even lack
Bread and cheese and meanly burrow, with no wealth but on the back
And scarce pottage, in some cottage the one poor surviving wrack:
Trade will spread its splendid pinions
Far to more secure dominions,
And the workshop will be dumb with this Immoral Minimum.
And the blinded Masses see, the spoiling will be hasted
Fast and faster to the point at which the State is out of joint
And at sixes and at sevens;
Each will want a goodly crumb to be his Moral Minimum,
With new earth and (hell called) heavens.
Ploughs will rust within the furrow and the landlords even lack
Bread and cheese and meanly burrow, with no wealth but on the back
And scarce pottage, in some cottage the one poor surviving wrack:
Trade will spread its splendid pinions
Far to more secure dominions,
And the workshop will be dumb with this Immoral Minimum.
| English Roses | |