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The Munition MakerI am the Cannon king, behold!I perish on a throne of gold.With forest far and turret high,Renowneda nd 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 ruth inclined;And though the pheasants over-runMy woods, I will not touch a gun.Yet while each monster that I forgeThunders 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 seaAlready seem like ghosts to meMy millions mock me, I am poorAs any beggar at my door.My vast dominion I resign,Six feet of earth to claim as mine,Letras de cancionesBrooding 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 increaseTo fight for pity, love and peace.Oh that I could with healing fare,And pledged to poverty and prayerCry high above the cringing crowd ..."Ye fools! Be not by Mammon cowed ...There are no pockets in a shroud." From Letras Mania