The Faithful Patriot

(or Sing a Song of Chicken Hawks)

Ah, you quick-witted verbal artist,

You master of the cogent phrase;

How deftly you weave your magic

As you mesmerize and amaze

While persuading the disinclined

With the magic of your words.

I swear I smell sunlit meadows

And hear sweetly singing birds

In spite of the leafless branches

And hint of snow on the wind;

You conjure the smell of roses

As though it were Spring again.

Your speech, so skillfully formed

And voiced in ringing tones,

Could make one rush to battle

Armed only with sticks and stones.

But, of course, you must stay behind,

Remaining True to The Cause,

Pumping out that fiery rhetoric

To rounds of patriotic applause.

Even though forced to remain at home

(Safe near your own front stoop)

You keep urging on the Faithful

To rally and ‘Support The Troops’.

What would we do without you

As you work so  tirelessly?

You’re a paragon of selflessness,

 Allegiance and Fidelity.

But, what if some of your relatives

Took a little part in the fray?

Maybe more vets could get back home,

Before they're blown away.

Oh, but you really do work too hard

To quibble over so small a thing;

Think of all the backing for the troops

Your unflagging cheerleading brings.

So go on with your work, brother

Boost that support ever stronger;

As the troops go on bleeding and dying,

And hoping this won’t last much longer.

 © Copyright 11/30/2005 by Thurman P. Woodfork

Graphic by ericsphotography