A poem of Totalitarianism

This is a poem that I was fortunate to chance upon whilst discussing the meaning of life with a historian who studied the life of the Grand Inquisitor. After much disagreement and debate, he broke into my house last night and left several thousand copies of this poem in various places like the toilet bowl and refrigerator. Needless to say, it has been permanently burned into my memory. I put it here in the highly unlikely case that there are only few copies left in the world, calling it 'a poem of Totalitarianism'. A very dark and morose bit of literature, but I found it intriguing.



Why men are such a funny race, we change like faces in a crowd,
some grow teeth and growl like wolves, others shudder; huddled, cowed.

Come wolves, crack the whips,
come sheep, mold the clay,
We shall build where others foundered,
Bring the mortar, bring the hay.

How can they demand before the Pharaoh?
How can they see the statue and yet stand?
How can they look and not long to worship,
before our God amidst the sand?
Crush the dissenters with crimson boots,
choke their churches in an iron grip,
let nothing stand between us and progress,
let not the vision of our Godhead slip.

Kill the wise men in the palace, put the prophets to the sword,
slash down those who dare decry us, ignore their imploring to the Word,
pile up our tottering tower, heap up Hell that I might die,
but let me perish below my Babel, in desperate hope it will fill the sky.