A
Hear thee
How she shakes?
Ken thee
How she quakes?
How she Trembles?
Our good mother,
This good Earth,
She moans
She groans
For Olympus' trubles.
Here they come
Here they come
Believe ye not
The Olympian's
Lying tongue
Their idiot gods
Their senile throne
These slaves of appetite,
Masters of all else.
Not monsters, friends,
Had the good Earth
Issued forth, but Giants
Of great stride and destiny
Was she ever prone,
To birth monsters?
B
They come,
They come,
The Land is with them,
Fertile, thirsty and pregnant
For the blood that
The usurping hand
Had shed
Of tillers ten thousand
Ploughs ten thousand
And seeds ten Thousand.
What would thine Olympus,
Oh Zeus, avail thee, how
Would it stand,
If the Earth had risen,
If her sons are 'gainst thee?
If they had found their king?
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