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When every bloody man of war is taken out and sunk, and all of hell's artillery is hammered into junk, and the Plunderbund is swatted stiff, and only those who toil shall eat and wear and use the things from mill and mine and soil, and folks that do the work that's done shall own the tools and jobs and will not feed the drones on corn and they themselves eat cobs; when Labor blows its trumpet blast in hallelujah tones and nothing but a garbage heap is left of Kings and thrones, and everyone shall sit beneath his fig-tree and his vine, and the tides of life shall mingle in the human and divine, and a little child shall lead them, as the old, old story ran, I will meet you there, my comrade, in the Brotherhood of Man.
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