Out in the open
That’s where real things happen
Not in a digital dungeon
But where birds sing
Then inevitable evening
Canister and carronades
The flag is lowered
The candle fades
A wisp, an ember
If not August
Pray September
Only silence dresses her rigging now
To the call of the bosun’s whistle
Her hatches now stand locked and secure
Where long past sailors once lingered
She is the last of the old frigates
Moored in the shallows of Charlestown
Board her and hear her echoes of valor
Haughtily anchored her colors humbly fly
No blemishes on her hull show her battles
Her carronades still sit silently waiting
As she floats mythically at ease
For a moment I can hear the great moans
Her keel and sailors cresting Atlantic waves
To Captain Hulls orders to come about
And charge on the enemy ship Guerriere
On her decks I feel the plight of her dead
Hearing stories of centuries old bulkheads
Astounding feats of a morose pride
To have brought their foe to capitulate
Now she stands tacit though ever grand
And still on her decks and deep in the bowels
The mighty spirit of U.S.S. Constitution dwells
A monument of endurance softly whispering
“Lest we remember long forgotten sacrifices…”
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