footing, though Egyptians, Hittites, Philistines, Persians,，
Bullets, and bayonets, and death, and diseases, Because some one he calls his Emperor, pleases.
If each man were to lay down his weapon, and say, With a click of his heels, "I wish you Good-day,"
Now what, may I ask, could the Emperor do? A king and his minions are really so few.
Angry? Oh, of course, a most furious Emperor! But the men are so many they need not mind his temper, or
The dire results which could not be inflicted. With no one to execute sentence, convicted
Is just the weak wind from an old, broken bellows. What lackeys men are, who might be such fine fellows!
To be killing each other, unmercifully, At an order, as though one said, "Bring up the tea."
Or is it that tasting the blood on their jaws They lap at it, drunk with its ferment, and laws
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