A State which, in the epoch of race poisoning, dedicates itself to the cherishing of its best racial elements, must some day be master of the world.
—Mein Kampf

I

The veldt men pray
Carved wood and stone
And tear their flesh
To vein and bone.

The idols scowl
In the brassy sun
Unmindful of
Appeasement done.

Yea, warriors cringe,
Whose tauntings dare
The regnant brute
In regal lair.

As tribal gods
The brave confound,
They bruise their heads
Against the ground.

Kennings of death
Encyst the square,
The mourners drool
And children scare.

Hyena laughs
Spear to the stars,
Dark bodies fall
Like ruptured spars.

Witch doctors whine
Edicts anew
And saint their mugs
Of chloral brew.

Fear grapples fear,
Crinkles the knife:
And life is death
And death is life.

And he who dies
Bequeaths the chief
His herd and flock,
But not his grief.

Who dares to mock,
Who dares to shove
The idols folk
Are schooled to love?

And graybeards croak
One fool alone
Reviled the hakims
Of wood and stone:

And headmen staked
The wretch to die
From dooms that crawl
And dooms that fly.

Ages fag out
In cyclic nights,
But sire and son
Repeat the rites.
II

The rule-or-ruin class, in idols of the tribe,
Creates narcissine images of itself;
Defend its fetishes from the merest gibe,
Like iron captains of the Guelf.

The black-veldt god
Behold, hair kinked and flat,
Against the sun's needling myriapod
A cooling mat.
The low wide nostrils ventilate
The long head in the incandescent air.
Insufferable sunrays cannot penetrate
Black tissues as the fair.
The python arm with reach to spare
Are at the beck of tribal law:
The black-veldt god is not aware
Of civilizations buried in the jungle's maw.

The yellow god
Behold, his mongoloid eye fold,
The color of his sod.
The cheekbones arched and bold,
The broad index of face,
The stoic mold
Herald the myth of race.
Lulled by the incense wisdom of repose,
Millenniums of candlelight,
The vegetarian god turns up his nose
At odors of the carnivorous white.

The Nordic god
Behold, his blue-gray eyes
Far-famed to conquer with a single prod
A people mazed in a hinterland of whys.
Hairy as the ape, of lip as thin,
With Mongol, one in blood, with African,
He makes a pseudo-science of his skin
And writes his autobiography Superman.

Race biases sow
Hemlocks to maim and blind,
Pile up Sinais of woe,
Jettison the freedoms of mind,
Breed the hydras of stealth,
Set kind razeeing kind,
Convert to potter's fields the commonwealth.

Drink, O Fool, the bias of the tribe,
Autograph the epitaph of pain,
Press to the heart the fangs of the moccasin bribe,
Rape beauty's flesh behind the crib of grain,
Let dust bowls blight the soul's topography,
Eat, O Fool, the racist shibboleth—
Damn the soul to sodomy!
Damn the soul to death!
III

How many times
Does a Southern town
Waste white genius
To keep the Blacks down?

How many times
Does progress stop
To find the maimed
A mythical prop?

How many times
Do a Führer's claws
Dig up dry bones
Of the gray Lost Cause?

How many times
Does the ermine class
Throw scraps of hate
To the starved white mass?

Five roads, the spokes of a county wheel,
Mortise the hub of our Courthouse Square:
Our graybeards fable our Daniel Boone,
Who brothered the red chiefs where
Five dark and bloody frontier paths,
Crossbones old as the skull of the moon,
Witnessed the sacrament pipe of peace,
Grim as the grin of a dead buffoon.

Gone are scalping-knives,
Gone are red frontiers,
Gone are homeborn chiefs,
Gone are pioneers.

Yet the town Five Points
Worships myths of race;
Like the veldt men, hates
Alien norm and face.

Sky the Jim Crow sign,
Dam the ghetto's wrath,
Gibbet freedom's sons—
Tell it not in Gath!

Out of the burial-crags of night
The felon winds hawk down;
Their devil claws riprap the roofs
That visor the town.

The stores on Main Street lean,
Tome to mummy tome;
The houses squat like smoking hulls
Half-convexed on a shoal of foam,
And glowworm windows in the deaf-dumb streets
Are greeting cards of home.

Idols of the tribe
Jail the spirit fast.
Scorn of lesser breeds
Flash and bone outlast.

Vandal Z's of wind,
Beggar vale and hill,
As the myths of race
Loot the people's will.

Upon the courthouse Justice stands,
Eyes fated not to see;
The town clock christens now the first-born hour
Of a day of hate to be.

Nor man nor beast prowls in his world,
But on the Courthouse Square
A statue of the Lost Cause bayonets
Contemporary air.

The skull and bones
Of yesterday
Haunts those who travel
The American Way.

Nobler to grope
In the dusk of dawn
Than to stumble back
In midnight's spawn.

Mein Kampf is not
A bible writ
With hand of gore
And heart of grit.

Mein Kampf is lepra
That whores the soul,
And the brothels of race
Nordic bawds control.

Yet thunderbolt hells
Of chastening rods
Smite ever Gomorrahs
Of tribal gods!