A Pict Song

Rome never looks where she treads

Always her heavy hooves fall

On our stomachs, our hearts and our heads

And rome never hears when we bawl



Her sentries pass on -- that is all

And we gather behind them in hordes

And plot to reconquer the wall

With only our tongues for our swords



For we are the little folk -- we!

Too little to love or to hate

Leave us alone and you'll see

That we can bring down the state



Mistletoe killing an oak

Rats gnawing cables in two

Moths making holes in a cloak

How they must love what they do!



Yes -- and we little folk too

We are as busy as they

Working our works out of view

Watch, and you'll see it some day



No indeed! we are not strong

But we know of peoples that are

Yes and we'll guide them along

To smash and destroy you in war



We shall be slaves just the same?

Yes, we have always been slaves

But you -- you will die of the shame

And then we will dance on your graves



We are the worm in the wood!

We are the rot at the root!

We are the taint in the blood!

We are the thorn in the foot!



Rudyard kipling


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