For those who want to know:
His name was Harry Simms,
His name was Joe York,
His name was a thousand names.For those who want to know:
No flowers were round his bed when he was born,
There sang no morning stars.
Suckled on poverty, schooled in mine and mill,
He would never make good, he was
A worker’s kid.When he organized, when he spoke at meetings, when he led the hunger march, the picket line,
He was a Red, a Bolshevik, a dirty foreigner.
How many bullets would it take to make him a 100-percent American?Remember this, you who killed him:
deputy thug, sheriff, chief of police, mayor, governor, President, Ford, Mellon, Rockefeller–
All you who fired the shot:He is not one, but many,
He is a thousand, a million, a hundred million,
His name is written in factory smoke.
His life in strike leaflets,
His face marches on picketlines from coast to coast, from the Great Lakes to the Gulf.
You who fired the shot, who hounded and killed him in a thousand cities:
His epitaph is in today's and tomorrow's struggle,
His tombstone–
A million implacable fists.
Proletarier aller Länder, vereinigt Euch! ☭ camarada.neocities.org est. May 1 2025 ☭ Last Updated: