Men of the North and Men of the South

The tale I tell is from time of old
Of country warm and clime of cold
 ‘Tis  story of sun and story of cloud
Of men of the north and of men of the south
But my tale starts in the great warm middle
Where the sun is gentle and fields are fertile
 The men of the middle did empires build
In countries fair with weather mild
 Egypt rose, the sun be praised
The Nile flowed, pyramids raised
 Babylon flexed his strong right arm
Persia smashed the world with war
 Macedon conquered all the world
Carthage was slain by Roman sword
But in jungle dark and desert hot
The men of the south accomplished naught
 No writing, no empire, no city, no wheel
No building, no art, no portrait, no steel
In huts and tents they made their homes
While the men of the middle left them alone
The men of the north were savage and bold
They raised their fists against ice and cold.
 They rose and fought, sacked cruel Rome
With blood they bought their ancestral home
 Their freedom came with tremendous cost
When Rome was fallen, its knowledge was lost
The men of the south boiled over with hate
For the men of the middle, the hour was late
 The men of the sun heard the Prophet’s word
And all Byzantium was put to the sword
 Persepolis fell; the Levant bled dry
Flames from the books rose up to the sky
 The man of the middle was dragged to his death
The word of the Prophet choked off his last breath
While  the middle was slain, the north grew wise
The men of the snow began their long, slow rise
Tonsured men studied ancient scrolls
Kingdoms clashed over soil and gold
 On Rome’s ashes they fought and grew strong
The wars were fierce; the winters long
 They learned how to fight; they learned to survive
In the cold and the wind, the northern man thrived
When the time was fulfilled, up came men of the south
Their hate was spurred on by the Prophet’s foul mouth
 And now came a first in the world’s great song—
Ishmael’s legions met a warrior too strong
 The Hammer struck death to the armies of sun
The parched earth drank their desert-kissed blood
 The men of the south would attack yet once more
But they met only death upon Danube’s fair shore
The man of the north, now tempered, refined
Possessing sound body, with finest of mind
 With his foes all now slain, and the battle now won
He turned and he gazed on the land of the sun
 The man of the north, he mastered the globe
Across savage lands, his footsteps now strode
From his mind and by his word
Wilds tamed, diseases cured
 The elements bowed to his command
He called forth crops from barren land
 Master of all, and slave of none
The man of the north had finally won
But in his mind, old hatred bred
Not once, but twice, his countries bled
 With shouts of rage the cannon called forth
To the trenches they summoned the men of the north
 The man of the north met his greatest foe
He dealt himself the fatal blow
Not once, but twice, he spilled his blood
No more upon the world he stood
Out from the dark came a call to faith
Deliverance, peace, and a world made safe
 Who was it who came with this message of hope?
Was it abbot, or priest, or monk, or pope?
 Nay, it was only a godless Jew
Who neither work nor thrift nor temperance knew
“All are equal, all are one”
“From each to all, and owners none!”
The man of the north received this word
Away from his ways and works he turned
He felt shame in his wealth and despised his own might
His heart of iron turned pale and white
 Wracked by guilt and sore distress
The men of the north gave the south redress
 “We wish we had lost!” the northern men cried
“Please, take our lands!” and opened doors wide
The men of the south came rushing in droves
The men of the north gave them housing and clothes
Upon this migration was placed no condition
So the men of the south brought the Prophet’s mission
 The man of the north prayed for his own doom
In madness his sealed the woman’s womb
 The man of the south felt no such compunction
He quite merrily continued his bodily function
The men of the south gather again for the kill
The word of the Prophet is on their lips still
 The man of the north is blinded by lust
A dissipate life is all he now wants
Can the man of the north stop the Prophet’s will?
Or is he too busy with visceral thrills?
 In a thousand years time’, will our children still sing
Of an an age of courage, when the Hammer was king?
 Or will they bow to the South and recite by rote
The lies and the hate that the Prophet once spoke?
This tale’s not over, this book is not finished
The man of the north must make his decision.
Author image
Hateful Heretic is a jerk.