The Children Weeping

Do you not hear the children weeping, O you murderers,
Or the sorrow from their tears?
They are laying in their caskets as cold and dry cadavers
And that means nothing all these years.
The young lambs bleat in the meadows,
The young birds chirp in the nest,
The young fawns play with the shadows,
The young flowers blow to the west;
But the aborted babies, O you murderers
Do nothing in their graves!
They’re dead and buried in the playtime of the others,
As you act like a bunch knaves.

Do you question the babies in their pain
As you suck their brains away?
Do they not deserve the freedom to remain
As you have done each day?
Trees go leafless during the fall
As the year ends in total white,
You a person can recall
How time moves to the night.
But for the aborted babies, O you murderers,
Did you ask them why they lay
Broken dreams of children lingerers
Forced to sleep in night and day.

Alas, alas, the babies! they were seeking
Their right to live, as we all will:
They were bundled up while shrieking
Taken out to the place to kill.
Go out, babies, from the lib’ral’s evil mind
You are not worth his time
Forgotten in your anguish by his kind.
That is the lib’rals’ greatest crime.