10 Best Famous Congress Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Congress poems. This is a select list of the best famous Congress poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Congress poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of congress poems.

• All Famous Congress Poems

 I

What new element before us unborn in nature? Is there
 a new thing under the Sun?
At last inquisitive Whitman a modern epic, detonative,
 Scientific theme
First penned unmindful by Doctor Seaborg with poison-
 ous hand, named for Death's planet through the 
 sea beyond Uranus
whose chthonic ore fathers this magma-teared Lord of 
 Hades, Sire of avenging Furies, billionaire Hell-
 King worshipped once
with black sheep throats cut, priests's face averted from
 underground mysteries in single temple at Eleusis,
Spring-green Persephone nuptialed to his inevitable
 Shade, Demeter mother of asphodel weeping dew,
her daughter stored in salty caverns under white snow, 
 black hail, grey winter rain or Polar ice, immemor-
 able seasons before
Fish flew in Heaven, before a Ram died by the starry
 bush, before the Bull stamped sky and earth
or Twins inscribed their memories in clay or Crab'd
 flood
washed memory from the skull, or Lion sniffed the
 lilac breeze in Eden--
Before the Great Year began turning its twelve signs,
 ere constellations wheeled for twenty-four thousand
 sunny years
slowly round their axis in Sagittarius, one hundred 
 sixty-seven thousand times returning to this night

Radioactive Nemesis were you there at the beginning 
 black dumb tongueless unsmelling blast of Disil-
 lusion?
I manifest your Baptismal Word after four billion years
I guess your birthday in Earthling Night, I salute your
 dreadful presence last majestic as the Gods,
Sabaot, Jehova, Astapheus, Adonaeus, Elohim, Iao, 
 Ialdabaoth, Aeon from Aeon born ignorant in an
 Abyss of Light,
Sophia's reflections glittering thoughtful galaxies, whirl-
 pools of starspume silver-thin as hairs of Einstein!
Father Whitman I celebrate a matter that renders Self
 oblivion!
Grand Subject that annihilates inky hands & pages'
 prayers, old orators' inspired Immortalities,
I begin your chant, openmouthed exhaling into spacious
 sky over silent mills at Hanford, Savannah River,
 Rocky Flats, Pantex, Burlington, Albuquerque
I yell thru Washington, South Carolina, Colorado, 
 Texas, Iowa, New Mexico,
Where nuclear reactors creat a new Thing under the 
 Sun, where Rockwell war-plants fabricate this death
 stuff trigger in nitrogen baths,
Hanger-Silas Mason assembles the terrified weapon
 secret by ten thousands, & where Manzano Moun-
 tain boasts to store
its dreadful decay through two hundred forty millenia
 while our Galaxy spirals around its nebulous core.
I enter your secret places with my mind, I speak with 
 your presence, I roar your Lion Roar with mortal
 mouth.
One microgram inspired to one lung, ten pounds of 
 heavy metal dust adrift slow motion over grey
 Alps
the breadth of the planet, how long before your radiance
 speeds blight and death to sentient beings?
Enter my body or not I carol my spirit inside you,
 Unnaproachable Weight,
O heavy heavy Element awakened I vocalize your con-
 sciousness to six worlds
I chant your absolute Vanity. Yeah monster of Anger
 birthed in fear O most
Ignorant matter ever created unnatural to Earth! Delusion
 of metal empires!
Destroyer of lying Scientists! Devourer of covetous
 Generals, Incinerator of Armies & Melter of Wars!
Judgement of judgements, Divine Wind over vengeful 
 nations, Molester of Presidents, Death-Scandal of
 Capital politics! Ah civilizations stupidly indus-
 trious!
Canker-Hex on multitudes learned or illiterate! Manu-
 factured Spectre of human reason! O solidified
 imago of practicioner in Black Arts
I dare your reality, I challenge your very being! I 
 publish your cause and effect!
I turn the wheel of Mind on your three hundred tons!
 Your name enters mankind's ear! I embody your
 ultimate powers!
My oratory advances on your vaunted Mystery! This 
 breath dispels your braggart fears! I sing your 
 form at last
behind your concrete & iron walls inside your fortress
 of rubber & translucent silicon shields in filtered
 cabinets and baths of lathe oil,
My voice resounds through robot glove boxes & ignot 
 cans and echoes in electric vaults inert of atmo-
 sphere,
I enter with spirit out loud into your fuel rod drums
 underground on soundless thrones and beds of
 lead
O density! This weightless anthem trumpets transcendent 
 through hidden chambers and breaks through 
 iron doors into the Infernal Room!
Over your dreadful vibration this measured harmony 
 floats audible, these jubilant tones are honey and 
 milk and wine-sweet water
Poured on the stone black floor, these syllables are
 barley groats I scatter on the Reactor's core, 
I call your name with hollow vowels, I psalm your Fate
 close by, my breath near deathless ever at your
 side
to Spell your destiny, I set this verse prophetic on your
 mausoleum walls to seal you up Eternally with
 Diamond Truth! O doomed Plutonium.

 II

The Bar surveys Plutonian history from midnight 
 lit with Mercury Vapor streetlamps till in dawn's 
 early light
he contemplates a tranquil politic spaced out between 
 Nations' thought-forms proliferating bureaucratic
& horrific arm'd, Satanic industries projected sudden
 with Five Hundred Billion Dollar Strength
around the world same time this text is set in Boulder,
 Colorado before front range of Rocky Mountains
twelve miles north of Rocky Flats Nuclear Facility in 
 United States of North America, Western Hemi-
 sphere
of planet Earth six months and fourteen days around
 our Solar System in a Spiral Galaxy
the local year after Dominion of the last God nineteen 
 hundred seventy eight
Completed as yellow hazed dawn clouds brighten East,
 Denver city white below
Blue sky transparent rising empty deep & spacious to a 
 morning star high over the balcony 
above some autos sat with wheels to curb downhill 
 from Flatiron's jagged pine ridge,
sunlit mountain meadows sloped to rust-red sandstone
 cliffs above brick townhouse roofs
as sparrows waked whistling through Marine Street's
 summer green leafed trees.

 III

This ode to you O Poets and Orators to come, you
 father Whitman as I join your side, you Congress
 and American people,
you present meditators, spiritual friends & teachers,
 you O Master of the Diamond Arts,
Take this wheel of syllables in hand, these vowels and 
 consonants to breath's end
take this inhalation of black poison to your heart, breath
 out this blessing from your breast on our creation 
forests cities oceans deserts rocky flats and mountains 
 in the Ten Directions pacify with exhalation,
enrich this Plutonian Ode to explode its empty thunder
 through earthen thought-worlds
Magnetize this howl with heartless compassion, destroy
 this mountain of Plutonium with ordinary mind
 and body speech,
thus empower this Mind-guard spirit gone out, gone
 out, gone beyond, gone beyond me, Wake space,
 so Ah!

 July 14, 1978

 YES, write, if you want to, there's nothing like trying;
Who knows what a treasure your casket may hold?
I'll show you that rhyming's as easy as lying,
If you'll listen to me while the art I unfold.

Here's a book full of words; one can choose as he fancies,
As a painter his tint, as a workman his tool;
Just think! all the poems and plays and romances
Were drawn out of this, like the fish from a pool!

You can wander at will through its syllabled mazes,
And take all you want, not a copper they cost,--
What is there to hinder your picking out phrases
For an epic as clever as "Paradise Lost"?

Don't mind if the index of sense is at zero,
Use words that run smoothly, whatever they mean;
Leander and Lilian and Lillibullero
Are much the same thing in the rhyming machine.

There are words so delicious their sweetness will smother
That boarding-school flavor of which we're afraid,
There is "lush"is a good one, and "swirl" is another,--
Put both in one stanza, its fortune is made.

With musical murmurs and rhythmical closes
You can cheat us of smiles when you've nothing to tell
You hand us a nosegay of milliner's roses, 
And we cry with delight, "Oh, how sweet they do smell!"

Perhaps you will answer all needful conditions
For winning the laurels to which you aspire,
By docking the tails of the two prepositions
I' the style o' the bards you so greatly admire.

As for subjects of verse, they are only too plenty
For ringing the changes on metrical chimes;
A maiden, a moonbeam, a lover of twenty 
Have filled that great basket with bushels of rhymes.

Let me show you a picture--'t is far from irrelevant--
By a famous old hand in the arts of design;
'T is only a photographed sketch of an elephant,--
The name of the draughtsman was Rembrandt of Rhine.

How easy! no troublesome colors to lay on,
It can't have fatigued him,-- no, not in the least,--
A dash here and there with a haphazard crayon,
And there stands the wrinkled-skinned, baggy-limbed beast.

Just so with your verse,-- 't is as easy as sketching,--
You can reel off a song without knitting your brow,
As lightly as Rembrandt a drawing or etching;
It is nothing at all, if you only know how.

Well; imagine you've printed your volume of verses:
Your forehead is wreathed with the garland of fame,
Your poems the eloquent school-boy rehearses,
Her album the school-girl presents for your name;

Each morning the post brings you autograph letters;
You'll answer them promptly,-- an hour isn't much
For the honor of sharing a page with your betters,
With magistrates, members of Congress, and such.

Of course you're delighted to serve the committees
That come with requests from the country all round,
You would grace the occasion with poems and ditties
When they've got a new schoolhouse, or poorhouse, or pound.

With a hymn for the saints and a song for the sinners,
You go and are welcome wherever you please;
You're a privileged guest at all manner of dinners,
You've a seat on the platform among the grandees.

At length your mere presence becomes a sensation,
Your cup of enjoyment is filled to its brim 
With the pleasure Horatian of digitmonstration,
As the whisper runs round of "That's he!" or "That's him!"

But remember, O dealer in phrases sonorous,
So daintily chosen, so tunefully matched,
Though you soar with the wings of the cherubim o'er us,
The ovum was human from which you were hatched.

No will of your own with its puny compulsion
Can summon the spirit that quickens the lyre;
It comes, if at all, like the Sibyl's convulsion
And touches the brain with a finger of fire.

So perhaps, after all, it's as well to he quiet
If you've nothing you think is worth saying in prose,
As to furnish a meal of their cannibal diet
To the critics, by publishing, as you propose.

But it's all of no use, and I'm sorry I've written,--
I shall see your thin volume some day on my shelf;
For the rhyming tarantula surely has bitten,
And music must cure you, so pipe it yourself.

 The last leaves fell like notes from a piano
and left their ovals echoing in the ear;
with gawky music stands, the winter forest
looks like an empty orchestra, its lines
ruled on these scattered manuscripts of snow.

The inlaid copper laurel of an oak
shines though the brown-bricked glass above your head
as bright as whisky, while the wintry breath
of lines from Mandelstam, which you recite,
uncoils as visibly as cigarette smoke.

"The rustling of ruble notes by the lemon Neva."
Under your exile's tongue, crisp under heel,
the gutturals crackle like decaying leaves,
the phrase from Mandelstam circles with light
in a brown room, in barren Oklahoma.

There is a Gulag Archipelago
under this ice, where the salt, mineral spring
of the long Trail of Tears runnels these plains
as hard and open as a herdsman's face
sun-cracked and stubbled with unshaven snow.

Growing in whispers from the Writers' Congress,
the snow circles like cossacks round the corpse
of a tired Choctaw till it is a blizzard
of treaties and white papers as we lose
sight of the single human through the cause.

So every spring these branches load their shelves,
like libraries with newly published leaves,
till waste recycles them—paper to snow—
but, at zero of suffering, one mind
lasts like this oak with a few brazen leaves.

As the train passed the forest's tortured icons,
ths floes clanging like freight yards, then the spires
of frozen tears, the stations screeching steam,
he drew them in a single winters' breath
whose freezing consonants turned into stone.

He saw the poetry in forlorn stations
under clouds vast as Asia, through districts
that could gulp Oklahoma like a grape,
not these tree-shaded prairie halts but space
so desolate it mocked destinations.

Who is that dark child on the parapets
of Europe, watching the evening river mint
its sovereigns stamped with power, not with poets,
the Thames and the Neva rustling like banknotes,
then, black on gold, the Hudson's silhouettes?

>From frozen Neva to the Hudson pours,
under the airport domes, the echoing stations,
the tributary of emigrants whom exile
has made as classless as the common cold,
citizens of a language that is now yours,

and every February, every "last autumn",
you write far from the threshing harvesters
folding wheat like a girl plaiting her hair,
far from Russia's canals quivering with sunstroke,
a man living with English in one room.

The tourist archipelagoes of my South
are prisons too, corruptible, and though
there is no harder prison than writing verse,
what's poetry, if it is worth its salt,
but a phrase men can pass from hand to mouth?

>From hand to mouth, across the centuries,
the bread that lasts when systems have decayed,
when, in his forest of barbed-wire branches,
a prisoner circles, chewing the one phrase
whose music will last longer than the leaves,

whose condensation is the marble sweat
of angels' foreheads, which will never dry
till Borealis shuts the peacock lights
of its slow fan from L.A. to Archangel,
and memory needs nothing to repeat.

Frightened and starved, with divine fever
Osip Mandelstam shook, and every
metaphor shuddered him with ague,
each vowel heavier than a boundary stone,
"to the rustling of ruble notes by the lemon Neva,"

but now that fever is a fire whose glow
warms our hands, Joseph, as we grunt like primates
exchanging gutturals in this wintry cave
of a brown cottage, while in drifts outside
mastodons force their systems through the snow.

 TO get betimes in Boston town, I rose this morning early; 
Here’s a good place at the corner—I must stand and see the show. 

Clear the way there, Jonathan! 
Way for the President’s marshal! Way for the government cannon! 
Way for the Federal foot and dragoons—and the apparitions copiously tumbling.

I love to look on the stars and stripes—I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle. 

How bright shine the cutlasses of the foremost troops! 
Every man holds his revolver, marching stiff through Boston town. 

A fog follows—antiques of the same come limping, 
Some appear wooden-legged, and some appear bandaged and bloodless.

Why this is indeed a show! It has called the dead out of the earth! 
The old grave-yards of the hills have hurried to see! 
Phantoms! phantoms countless by flank and rear! 
Cock’d hats of mothy mould! crutches made of mist! 
Arms in slings! old men leaning on young men’s shoulders!

What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums? 
Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for fire-locks, and level
 them?


If you blind your eyes with tears, you will not see the President’s marshal; 
If you groan such groans, you might balk the government cannon. 

For shame, old maniacs! Bring down those toss’d arms, and let your white hair be;
Here gape your great grand-sons—their wives gaze at them from the windows, 
See how well dress’d—see how orderly they conduct themselves. 

Worse and worse! Can’t you stand it? Are you retreating? 
Is this hour with the living too dead for you? 

Retreat then! Pell-mell!
To your graves! Back! back to the hills, old limpers! 
I do not think you belong here, anyhow. 

But there is one thing that belongs here—shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of
 Boston?

I will whisper it to the Mayor—he shall send a committee to England; 
They shall get a grant from the Parliament, go with a cart to the royal vault—haste!

Dig out King George’s coffin, unwrap him quick from the grave-clothes, box up his
 bones
 for a
 journey; 
Find a swift Yankee clipper—here is freight for you, black-bellied clipper, 
Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! steer straight toward Boston bay. 

Now call for the President’s marshal again, bring out the government cannon, 
Fetch home the roarers from Congress, make another procession, guard it with foot and
 dragoons.

This centre-piece for them: 
Look! all orderly citizens—look from the windows, women! 

The committee open the box, set up the regal ribs, glue those that will not stay, 
Clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull. 

You have got your revenge, old buster! The crown is come to its own, and more than its
 own.

Stick your hands in your pockets, Jonathan—you are a made man from this day; 
You are mighty cute—and here is one of your bargains.

 WHEN Guilford good our pilot stood
 An’ did our hellim thraw, man,
Ae night, at tea, began a plea,
 Within America, man:
Then up they gat the maskin-pat,
 And in the sea did jaw, man;
An’ did nae less, in full congress,
 Than quite refuse our law, man.


Then thro’ the lakes Montgomery takes,
 I wat he was na slaw, man;
Down Lowrie’s Burn he took a turn,
 And Carleton did ca’, man:
But yet, whatreck, he, at Quebec,
 Montgomery-like did fa’, man,
Wi’ sword in hand, before his band,
 Amang his en’mies a’, man.


Poor Tammy Gage within a cage
 Was kept at Boston-ha’, man;
Till Willie Howe took o’er the knowe
 For Philadelphia, man;
Wi’ sword an’ gun he thought a sin
 Guid Christian bluid to draw, man;
But at New York, wi’ knife an’ fork,
 Sir-Loin he hacked sma’, man.


Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an’ whip,
 Till Fraser brave did fa’, man;
Then lost his way, ae misty day,
 In Saratoga shaw, man.
Cornwallis fought as lang’s he dought,
 An’ did the Buckskins claw, man;
But Clinton’s glaive frae rust to save,
 He hung it to the wa’, man.


Then Montague, an’ Guilford too,
 Began to fear, a fa’, man;
And Sackville dour, wha stood the stour,
 The German chief to thraw, man:
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk,
 Nae mercy had at a’, man;
An’ Charlie Fox threw by the box,
 An’ lows’d his tinkler jaw, man.


Then Rockingham took up the game,
 Till death did on him ca’, man;
When Shelburne meek held up his cheek,
 Conform to gospel law, man:
Saint Stephen’s boys, wi’ jarring noise,
 They did his measures thraw, man;
For North an’ Fox united stocks,
 An’ bore him to the wa’, man.


Then clubs an’ hearts were Charlie’s cartes,
 He swept the stakes awa’, man,
Till the diamond’s ace, of Indian race,
 Led him a sair faux pas, man:
The Saxon lads, wi’ loud placads,
 On Chatham’s boy did ca’, man;
An’ Scotland drew her pipe an’ blew,
 “Up, Willie, waur them a’, man!”


Behind the throne then Granville’s gone,
 A secret word or twa, man;
While slee Dundas arous’d the class
 Be-north the Roman wa’, man:
An’ Chatham’s wraith, in heav’nly graith,
 (Inspired bardies saw, man),
Wi’ kindling eyes, cry’d, “Willie, rise!
 Would I hae fear’d them a’, man?”


But, word an’ blow, North, Fox, and Co.
 Gowff’d Willie like a ba’, man;
Till Suthron raise, an’ coost their claise
 Behind him in a raw, man:
An’ Caledon threw by the drone,
 An’ did her whittle draw, man;
An’ swoor fu’ rude, thro’ dirt an’ bluid,
 To mak it guid in law, man.

 1
NOW list to my morning’s romanza—I tell the signs of the Answerer; 
To the cities and farms I sing, as they spread in the sunshine before me. 

A young man comes to me bearing a message from his brother; 
How shall the young man know the whether and when of his brother? 
Tell him to send me the signs.

And I stand before the young man face to face, and take his right hand in my left hand,
 and his
 left
 hand in my right hand, 
And I answer for his brother, and for men, and I answer for him that answers for all, and
 send
 these
 signs. 

2
Him all wait for—him all yield up to—his word is decisive and final, 
Him they accept, in him lave, in him perceive themselves, as amid light, 
Him they immerse, and he immerses them.

Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people, animals, 
The profound earth and its attributes, and the unquiet ocean, (so tell I my morning’s
 romanza;)

All enjoyments and properties, and money, and whatever money will buy, 
The best farms—others toiling and planting, and he unavoidably reaps, 
The noblest and costliest cities—others grading and building, and he domiciles there;
Nothing for any one, but what is for him—near and far are for him, the ships in the
 offing, 
The perpetual shows and marches on land, are for him, if they are for any body. 

He puts things in their attitudes; 
He puts to-day out of himself, with plasticity and love; 
He places his own city, times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and sisters, associations,
 employment, politics, so that the rest never shame them afterward, nor assume to command
 them.

He is the answerer: 
What can be answer’d he answers—and what cannot be answer’d, he shows how
 it
 cannot
 be answer’d. 

3
A man is a summons and challenge; 
(It is vain to skulk—Do you hear that mocking and laughter? Do you hear the ironical
 echoes?) 

Books, friendships, philosophers, priests, action, pleasure, pride, beat up and down,
 seeking
 to
 give satisfaction;
He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that beat up and down also. 

Whichever the sex, whatever the season or place, he may go freshly and gently and safely,
 by
 day or
 by night; 
He has the pass-key of hearts—to him the response of the prying of hands on the
 knobs. 

His welcome is universal—the flow of beauty is not more welcome or universal than he
 is; 
The person he favors by day, or sleeps with at night, is blessed.

4
Every existence has its idiom—everything has an idiom and tongue; 
He resolves all tongues into his own, and bestows it upon men, and any man translates, and
 any
 man
 translates himself also; 
One part does not counteract another part—he is the joiner—he sees how they
 join. 

He says indifferently and alike, How are you, friend? to the President at his
 levee, 
And he says, Good-day, my brother! to Cudge that hoes in the sugar-field,
And both understand him, and know that his speech is right. 

He walks with perfect ease in the Capitol, 
He walks among the Congress, and one Representative says to another, Here is our equal,
 appearing
 and new. 

Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic, 
And the soldiers suppose him to be a soldier, and the sailors that he has follow’d
 the
 sea,
And the authors take him for an author, and the artists for an artist, 
And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them; 
No matter what the work is, that he is the one to follow it, or has follow’d it, 
No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and sisters there. 

The English believe he comes of their English stock,
A Jew to the Jew he seems—a Russ to the Russ—usual and near, removed from none. 

Whoever he looks at in the traveler’s coffee-house claims him, 
The Italian or Frenchman is sure, and the German is sure, and the Spaniard is sure, and
 the
 island
 Cuban is sure; 
The engineer, the deck-hand on the great lakes, or on the Mississippi, or St. Lawrence, or
 Sacramento, or Hudson, or Paumanok Sound, claims him. 

The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood;
The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves in the ways of
 him—he strangely transmutes them, 
They are not vile any more—they hardly know themselves, they are so grown.

 The riches of the poet are equal to his poetry 
His power is his left hand
 It is idle weak and precious
His poverty is his wealth, a wealth which may destroy him
 like Midas Because it is that laziness which is a form of impatience 
And this he may be destroyed by the gold of the light
 which never was
On land or sea.
He may be drunken to death, draining the casks of excess
That extreme form of success.
He may suffer Narcissus' destiny
Unable to live except with the image which is infatuation
Love, blind, adoring, overflowing
Unable to respond to anything which does not bring love
 quickly or immediately.

...The poet must be innocent and ignorant
But he cannot be innocent since stupidity is not his strong
 point
Therefore Cocteau said, "What would I not give
To have the poems of my youth withdrawn from
 existence?
I would give to Satan my immortal soul."
This metaphor is wrong, for it is his immortal soul which
 he wished to redeem,
Lifting it and sifting it, free and white, from the actuality of 
 youth's banality, vulgarity, 
 pomp and affectation of his early 
 works of poetry.

So too in the same way a Famous American Poet 
When fame at last had come to him sought out the fifty copies
of his first book of poems which had been privately printed 
by himself at his own expense.
He succeeded in securing 48 of the 50 copies, burned them 
And learned then how the last copies were extant, 
As the law of the land required, stashed away in the national capital,
at the Library of Congress.
Therefore he went to Washington, therefore he took out the last two
copies
Placed them in his pocket, planned to depart 
Only to be halted and apprehended. Since he was the author,
Since they were his books and his property he was reproached
But forgiven. But the two copies were taken away from him 
Thus setting a national precedent.

For neither amnesty nor forgiveness is bestowed upon poets, poetry and poems,
For William James, the lovable genius of Harvard 
spoke the terrifying truth: "Your friends may forget, God
 may forgive you, But the brain cells record 
 your acts for the rest of eternity."
What a terrifying thing to say!
This is the endless doom, without remedy, of poetry.
This is also the joy everlasting of poetry.

 1775

Said Congress to George Washington:
 “To set this country free,
You’ll have to whip the Britishers
 And chase them o’er the sea.”
“Oh, very well,” said Washington,
 “I’ll do the best I can.
I’ll slam and bang those Britishers
 And whip them to a man.”

1777

Said Congress to George Washington:
 “The people all complain;
Why don’t you fight? You but retreat
 And then retreat again.”
“That can’t be helped,” said Washington,
 “As you will quite agree
When you see how the novelists
 Have mixed up things for me.”

Said Congress to George Washington:
 “Pray make your meaning clear.”
Said Washington: “Why, certainly—
 But pray excuse this tear.
Of course we know,” said Washington,
 “The object of this war—
It is to furnish novelists
 With patriotic lore.”

Said Congress to George Washington:
 “Yes! yes! but pray proceed.”
Said Washington: “My part in it
 Is difficult indeed,
For every hero in the books
 Must sometime meet with me,
And every sweet-faced heroine
 I must kiss gallantly.”

Said Congress to George Washington:
 “But why must you retreat?”
Said Washington: “One moment, please,
 My story to complete.
These hero-folk are scattered through
 The whole United States;
At every little country town
 A man or maiden waits.”

To Congress said George Washington:
 “At Harlem I must be
On such a day to chat with one,
 And then I’ll have to flee
With haste to Jersey, there to meet
 Another. Here’s a list
Of sixty-seven heroes, and
 There may be some I’ve missed.”

To Congress said George Washington:
 “Since I must meet them all
(And if I don’t you know how flat
 The novels all will fall),
I cannot take much time to fight,
 I must be on the run,
Or some historic novelist
 Will surely be undone.”

Said Congress to George Washington:
 “You are a noble man.
Your thoughtfulness is notable,
 And we approve your plan;
A battle won pads very well
 A novel that is thin,
But it is better to retreat
 Than miss one man and win.”

Said Congress to George Washington:
 “Kiss every pretty maid,
But do it in a courtly way
 And in a manner staid—
And some day when your sword is sheathed
 And all our banners furled,
A crop of novels will spring up
 That shall appal the world.”

 The laughter of women sets fire
to the Halls of Injustice
and the false evidence burns
to a beautiful white lightness

It rattles the Chambers of Congress
and forces the windows wide open
so the fatuous speeches can fly out

The laughter of women wipes the mist
from the spectacles of the old;
it infects them with a happy flu
and they laugh as if they were young again

Prisoners held in underground cells
imagine that they see daylight
when they remember the laughter of women

It runs across water that divides,
and reconciles two unfriendly shores
like flares that signal the news to each other

What a language it is, the laughter of women,
high-flying and subversive.
Long before law and scripture
we heard the laughter, we understood freedom.

 My father knows the proper way 
The nation should be run;
He tells us children every day
Just what should now be done.
He knows the way to fix the trusts,
He has a simple plan;
But if the furnace needs repairs,
We have to hire a man.
My father, in a day or two
Could land big thieves in jail;
There's nothing that he cannot do,
He knows no word like "fail."
"Our confidence" he would restore,
Of that there is no doubt;
But if there is a chair to mend,
We have to send it out.

All public questions that arise,
He settles on the spot;
He waits not till the tumult dies,
But grabs it while it's hot.
In matters of finance he can
Tell Congress what to do;
But, O, he finds it hard to meet
His bills as they fall due.

It almost makes him sick to read
The things law-makers say;
Why, father's just the man they need,
He never goes astray.
All wars he'd very quickly end,
As fast as I can write it;
But when a neighbor starts a fuss,
'Tis mother has to fight it.

In conversation father can
Do many wondrous things;
He's built upon a wiser plan
Than presidents or kings.
He knows the ins and outs of each
And every deep transaction;
We look to him for theories,
But look to ma for action.