Ours, ours is the key O desolate crier,
The golden key to what ills distress you
Left without ever a God to judge you,
Lost without even Man to oppress you.
Look west, look west to the Land of Profits,
To the old gold marts, and confess it then
How greatly your great propaganda prospers
When left to the methods of Business Men.
Ah, Mammon is mightier than Marx in making
a goose-step order for godless geese,
And snobs know better than mobs to measure
Where Golf shall flourish and God shall cease.
Lift up your hearts in the wastes Slavonian,
Let no Red Sun on your wrath go down;
There are millions of very much organized atheists
In the Outer Circle of London Town.
- G.K. Chesterton, "Comfort for Communists"
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