A king has fallen on the field-
The field of war, but not by shot,
Nor even through a broken shield:
He died in exile-awful lot!
Ras Nasibu of Ogaden
Is he-the greatest of his tribe-
The man who led his valiant men
With Wehib Pasha at his side.

He died in Switzerland-afar,
Of broken heart in his exile:
He saw the end of that sad war
In which he fought without a smile.
The Brute of Italy had sent
His liquid flames of steady death
And tanks that ploughed and also rent
The land and stole the hero’s breath.

This Mussolini, vile of heart,
Who plagues the world with devil tricks,
Has caused a king to lose his part
In building glory with his bricks.
The dream of Abyssinia, great,
Was dear to Nasibu’s own heart;
But he has met an awful fate,
And failed in this to do his part.

The Negroes of the world shall wait
To take their stand against the foe,
And when they fight to win their State
They’ll make Italians drink their woe.
A Fascist king shall never rule
The Blacks of all the lands we know:
The Negro shall be no foot-stool,
But give to all the seeds they sow.

Let’s honour Nasibu’s fair name,
And damn the Mussolini tribe:
This Abyssinian’s splendid fame
Shall live through pen of Negro scribe.
Look out for time, that’s comin’ soon,
To strike Italian Fascists down:
To us ’twill be a glorious boon
To have them sprawling on the ground.

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