untitled

First version of a poem I wrote based on a dream of the war of 1812.

There is no thicker material of which I can speak,
and because your arms weigh you down so clumsily,
Even if you'd fancy the dirt and the draft,
I know you'd push aside my branches, and tread upon my moss

but just because I'd smelled them out, and you provided the virtue,
Ceremony may still be a requirement, bootstraps and tassels et all.

and when undercooked food and underclothed overdressing chase you,
we might step in, and draw, and clean and claw to save our hall

I suppose I should have read it sooner in ivory nerves that glimmer,
but tarps and drapes, who'd served to serve, obscured and blocked,
not to be attributed pro patria; I boomed and blasted in your shine
and in the end, if red and lost, we're run through and tossed,

I fought for you,
I fought for truth,
and I fought for the good of us now due