Fords Theater April 15th 1865
Petersen House, Washington, D.C.
(i admit to own a passion for the Civil War in general,
and the life and death of
the sixteenth president in particular).
between a hard spot of whiskey
and draughts of arrack
nonetheless (without doubt), this Yankee
would be fain toot ravel back
to Antebellum America
amidst the urban din and clack
where smelting earsplitting,
choking industrialization
a deaf fin hit drawback,
and where dark shadows cast an eternal
edge of night pallor tubby somewhat exact
from mighty robber barons,
who tolerated no flack
despite the (bleeding nose against grindstone)
inhumanity bearing down hard
with very little giveback
viz zit head as greenback
yes...no matter the noxious
crash course urbanization
(and attendant ghettoization)
breeding a lunging tuberculosis hack
this twenty first century mid dull aged
married man (an average Monterey Jack
ass), whose sought after
claim to fame penchant
modestly admits to whiz knack
crafting literary concoctions with no lack
of ideas, where one arose
strong as an oncoming mack
truck (this vibrant fascination
with the American Civil War
(even before Ken Burns popularized
this calamitous event) in nonblack
and white (digital remastered technicolor)
exemplified, enumerated, and emphasized
how a minor dispute got way offtrack
whereat the stately commander in chief did pack
a punch analogous sans,
barreling forth
like unstoppable quarterback
despite his six foot four inch
gangly physique cull rack
tried his darnedest
(or unprintable epithet)
yet a coterie of anti war subjects
figuratively and literally up in arms
wanted nothing less to sack
the sixteenth president
whose aged fifty seven year old countenance
one month after the Ides of March death didst dance
during the low key celebration sans,
internecine bloodbath Grants'
and Lees' armistice
one hundred and fifty three years ago
the peace treaty signed at Appomattox,
an irrevocable agony did blow
when that fateful, mournful,
somber night at Ford's Theater
the grim reaper didst (like Jim) crow
after one shot rang out blasting,
where crimson tide didst flow
drowning American history
at that juncture grow
wing no less painless today, which hoo
veer ring agony didst smite
incomprehensible cleft mow
wing down unfinished ambition, which no
one other than Abraham Lincoln could sow
the racial rift, that slavery trucked in tow
generations shackled with compounded woe!
Copyright © Matthew Harris | Year Posted 2018
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