Marching Song of the Giants

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?