See there, and there it gnaws, the Rust—

Voet-ganger of the coming swarm

Whose winged innumerable storm

Shall grind their pylons into dust.

Whose dropped asphyxiating dung

Shall fall exploding blood and mire;

Whose cropping teeth of rattled fire

Shall make one cud of old and young;—

Till turning from the carnage then

Themselves in anger to devour,

Shall die a race of weary men—

And all to spring the dainty flower

That, herding on that blasted heath,

A cowboy chews between his teeth.