A
PICT'S SONG
by Ruyard
Kipling
We are the little folk, we
To little to love or to hate
But leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the state.
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We are the worm in the wood;
We are the rot at the root;
We are the taint in the blood;
We are the thorn in the foot.
Rome never heeds where she treads
Always her heavy hoves fall
On our bellies, our hearts and our heads
And Rome never heeds when we squall.
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Her sentries pass on that is all
And we gather behind them in hordes
And plot to reconquer the wall
With only our tongues for our swords.
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Mistletoe killing an Oak
Rats gnawing cables in two
Moths making holes in a cloak
How they must love what we do.
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Yes, and we are the little folk, too
We are as busy as they
Working our works out of view
Watch and you'll see them someday.
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No, indeed we are not strong
But we know powers that are
Yes, and we'll guide them along
To smash and destroy you in war.
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We shall be slaves just the same
Slaves, we have always been slaves
But you, you will die of the shame
And then we will dance on your graves ... singing ...
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