A Call to Arms

 A Call to Arms

 

Captain, Is the word given?

 

Aye, Master, the word is given,

from the depths of hell are we Angels risen,

we swarm, we soar, we rise above,

unloving and unloved.

 

Do we not sport velvet gloves

of lace so fine and filigree feathered,

mask muscle taut in iron and leather

bent from this abysmal world

whence once we were tethered?

 

And those in London nightly quake,

dreams that shatter them to wake,

of cannon shot and thunder hurled,

see edifice about them crumble,

in visions of slaughterer’s tumbril.

 

Let chains shatter and let anchors haul,

for who here cannot hear the call

of Albion in Death’s choking clutches?

 

Here’s twenty thousand in merrie throng,

who lusty will raise voice in song,

take up arms, unsheathe unbloodied skene,

to plunge hilt-deep, to rend in twain,

and spill the life of lifeless men,

who have driven her bloody to the brink,

to watch in malice as she sinks,

pile coppers high, hear silver clink,

and only of themselves do think,

and gorge themselves and daily drink

a toast to their good fortune.

 

Well, here’s metal that will make you weep,

and mettle enough bring dreamless sleep,

falls eternal dark, falls eternal hell,

as unquiet the blade that makes rest unwell,

where all corpses will fall unbidden:

rot all peaceless amidst the middens.

 

Captain, your order’s heard, your word is given,

let all Angels muster, let all souls be driven,

and with a shout, Trelawney’s living!

 

Aye, Master, set course for yon green-blue pearl,

Let halyards strain, let sheets unfurl,

And those talismans that fakirs charmed,

clutched hopeless in their greasy palms,

will ne'er hope to resist this call to arms!