Written by George Sylvester Viereck, May 27, 1944. Written in the Washington, D.C. District Jail where
he was incarcerated as a victim of the mass sedition trial of many that opposed our entry into
the European War. The group ranged from intellectuals like Viereck and Lawrence Dennis to
brownshirts. None were convicted.
Viereck was a prolific writer and wrote many books and much poetry during the first
half of the 20th Century. He is also the father of the writer and thinker Peter Viereck.
The poem is dedicated to Corporal George Sylvester Viereck, Jr., recipient of the
Purple Heart and other citations. Corporal Viereck was killed in action at
Anzio, Italy, on March 24, 1944.
I
Malignant trickster, black is white
In the Hell's kitchen of your brain:
Now on the altar of your spite
My son lies slain.
A bonny, gentle lad was he,
Clothed with a grace you never knew,
He saw not the Satanic glee,
The guile of you.
He deemed it meet, he deemed it sweet,
To die amid the cannon's roar,
When with the Trumpet of Deceit
You called to war.
Your hand unleashed the fiery flood
While Hell guffawed with shouts and cheers,
Smiling, you batten on men's blood
And mother's tears.
By your own pledge you stand accursed,
When once war's mummeries have passed,
As one who put his malice first,
His country, last.
II
Thrice called, you thrice betrayed the Lord,
Mocked honor with your smirk inane:
Now myriads perish by the sword
And myriad others writhe in pain.
Your victims rotting in the sod
And they whose bones bleach in the sea,
Cry up for justice unto God-
If God there were, you could not be!
Into the game of foreign kings
Like chips our children's lives you put,
While you and alien underlings
Tread Freedom's Charter underfoot.
Our son's, trapped in your cunning net,
Make "Liberty" their battle-cry:
You tilt your waggish cigarette
And kill the thing for which they die.
III
You tossed our world into this futile hell,
Playing with words as children with a toy,
Our youngsters' lives are not expendable-
No colored ribbon can bring back my boy!
On thousand fronts our loved ones die in vain
With their life blood you coyly write your name
Into the Book of Infamy: you gain
The crown of Sham, the coronet of Shame.
Though you may crush me as you crushed my son,
I shall recite the legend of your shame,
Whatever gods you smugly call upon-
Mine is a soul your turnkeys cannot tame.
Black out my light, obliterate my name,
I shall resist till Freedom's fight is won,
Nor stoop to play your sanctimonious game:
Take back your ribbons, give me back my son!
IV
Americans, remember,
Save first your native land,
Stir up each red-hot ember
In Freedom's dying brand.
Driven like sheep and cattle
Midst hostile airfleets' drone,
Into an alien battle,
Your souls are still your own.
Servitors unto no man
Free as the salt sea-foam,
With bullets, strike the foeman,
With ballots, fight at home!
V
O self-depleted arsenal
Of what was once democracy,
Throw off the foul enchanter's thrall,
Restore your ancient sovereignty!
A blighted tree, bare-stripped of fruit,
Midst your rejoicings I shall stand,
I cannot with a magic flute
Recall my son from shadowland.
No lyric offering can beguile
Time to reverse its tragic pace,
Nor conjure back the winsome smile
That played like sunshine on his face.
And part of me, the heart of me,
Will ever dwell in Anzio,
Where on the beachhead by the sea
Stand wooden crosses row by row.
The waves that on the ocean ride
Whisper forever to the air
Praise for the lads who bravely died,
Curses for him who sent them there.