The rambling goblin twists his wrist
And grabs the kindling kiddo grist.
Forth from the earth there comes a mist
          Enveloping the throne.
The Hohenzollern lifts his sword
On high, and says, "I am your Lord,
Your war Lord, forward, clip the cord,
          And smash the British drone.

The Kaiser boasts one running ear.
His whole get-up is rather queer,
Rotting away with shrivelled gear,
          This war Lord, son of Cain:
Who raves, blasphemes and howls all wroth,
Who bids his hirelings go forth
To battle red with bloody froth,
          And murder on the brain.

Let kultur revel deep in blood,
The royal Kaiser chews his cud,
          Swallows all logic, spits out mud.
The bloody mud takes shape.
The Death Head legion in the lead
Stabs at the victim, makes him bleed,
Initiates the reign of greed
          Of arson, murder, rape.

Louvain, the beautiful, all flame;
Namur, the strong, has lost the game.
Foul murder in the Kaiser's name
          Is now the kultured cult.
Teutonic cruelty doth lurk,
United with the mighty Turk.
The bolts of Hell get in their work,
          Red death's black catapult.

The Lusitania plies the wave,
Unmindful of the yawning grave,
Unheedful of that low-bred knave,
          William, the butcher King;
Degenerate down to the core,
Unprincipled, defies all law,
Exhaling stench from every pore.
          Murder is on the wing.

The black assassin lies in wait,
Chanting the hellish hymn of hate.
The submarine draws near. Dread fate
          Points with a sinister smirk.
See the white ripple on the crest,
See that bright sunbeam from the west,
Guiding with demoniac zest
          The butcher King's sharp dirk.

Women and children struggle for life,
Mother and father, husband and wife.
Death claims the victory. Anarchy, strife,
          Triumphant, cheer, curse and brag.
Rushing waters and rattling guns,
Women scream for their little ones.
Grins and gibes from the kultured Huns,
          Piracy shakes out its flag.

The Kaiser groans aloud "Oh, rot,"
The wen upon his head burns hot.
He puts a nickel in the slot,
          Then waves his limber wattle.
The drum within his running ear
Beats loudly, see, he shakes with fear,
he fortune-telling slot fakes queer.
          Oh, what a mellow rattle!

This is the fortune that he reads
While perspiration, greasy beads
Stand on his forehead. Now he weeds,
          Or tries to weed, the chaff.
But all is rottenness within,
At last he knows he cannot win
William the butcher rubs his chin.
          Poor derelict giraffe!

The scales don't tip to please the King
The clinging vine says, "Nixie cling,
You can no longer fling your sling,
          Go to the nearest dock,
Say to the Devil, 'Friend, you win.'
Give one deep sigh and then jump in.
Your former chums both kith and kin
          Will never more say 'Hock.'
But night and day forever, yea
All men will sing, and fling
Your name, poor clay, to black decay
          William the butcher King."

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