There exists the eternal fact of conflict And – next – a mere sense of locality. Afterward we derive sustenance from the winds. Afterward we grip upon this sense of locality. Afterward, we become patriots. The godly vice of patriotism makes us slaves, And – let us surrender to this falsity Let us be patriots Then welcome us the practical men Thrumming on a thousand drums The practical men, God help us. They cry aloud to be led to war Ah – They have been poltroons on a thousand fields And the sacked sad city of New York is their record Furious to face the Spaniard, these people, and crawling worms before their task They name serfs and send charity in bulk to better men They play at being free, these people of New York Who are too well-dressed to protest against infamy.