VIOLENCE IN IDLE HANDS By my faith and honor, Our women do mock us, And daily de

VIOLENCE IN IDLE HANDS

By my faith and honor,

Our women do mock us,

And daily demonstrate,

Our mettle is all bred out.

And they give their bodies,

to the lust of foreign youth

To new-store Europa

With bastard sons.

Lest we rise and remember,

Whence came our repose,

Mined from violence mastered

To multiply our numbers fold.

We herded the world, unwanted,

From ignorance into wealth,

And in folly dreamed us creditor

While debtors envious evade.

Our women, they do mock us,

And daily prattle, with scorn,

Debtors too, forgotten:

“Their mettle is all bred out”

Words complain, rest abstains,

Patience excuses, uncertainly refrains.

Debts enforced by violence,

or abandoned through convenience.

The greatest virtue is violence used,

In defense of blood entombed.

Whose interest sustains us,

But whose principle has run out.

Conviction and Intolerance,

Heady violence, unforgiving demand,

Virtues in their context,

But lost in idle hands.