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 ruth 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."