A Toast

Not your martyrs anointed of heaven -              The ages are red where they trod -     But the Hunted - the world's bitter leaven -              Who smote at your imbecile God -     A being to pander and fawn to,              To propitiate, flatter and dread     As a thing that your souls are in pawn to,              A Dealer who traffics the dead;     A Trader with greed never sated,              Who barters the souls in his snares,     That were trapped in the lusts he created,              For incense and masses and prayers -     They are crushed in the coils of your halters;              'Twere well - by the creeds ye have nursed -     That ye send up a cry from your altars,              A mass for the Martyrs Accursed;     A passionate prayer from reprieval              For the Brotherhood not understood -     For the Heroes who died for the evil,              Believing the evil was good.     To the Breakers, the Bold, the Despoilers,              Who dreamed of a world over-thrown...     They who died for the millions of toilers -              Few - fronting the nations alone!      - To the Outlawed of men and the Branded,              Whether hated or hating they fell -     I pledge the devoted, red-handed,              Unfaltering Heroes of Hell!