The Munition Maker - Country Joe McDonald

I am the Cannon king, behold!

I perish on a throne of gold

With forest far and turret high

Renowned and rajah-rich am I

My father was and his before

With wealth we owe to war on war;

But let no potentate be proud

There are no pockets in a shroud

By nature I am mild and kind

To gentleness and truth inclined;

And though the pheasants over-run

My woods, I will not touch a gun

Yet while each monster that I forge

Thunders destruction from its gorge

Death’s whisper is, I vow, more loud

There are no pockets in a shroud

My time is short, my ships at sea

Already seem like ghosts to me

My millions mock me, I am poor

As any beggar at my door

My vast dominion I resign

Six feet of earth to claim as mine

Brooding with shoulders bid bitter-bowed

There are no pockets in a shroud

Dear God, let me purge pure my heart

And be of Heaven’s hope a part!

Flinging my fortune’s foul increase

To fight for pity, love and peace

Oh that I could with healing fare

And pledged to poverty and prayer

Cry high above the cringing crowd

«Ye fools!

Be not by Mammon cowed

There are no pockets in a shroud.»