By Tom Riley
“It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.”
--Tennyson, “Ulysses”
The ghosts of all the Yankees Forrest slew
With his own hand – that’s thirty ghosts, we’re told—
Will testify that Forrest is enrolled
Amongst the warriors where Gray and Blue
Are now no longer interested in who
Can lay uneasy claim on aims of gold,
Where manhood means admission to the fold
Of bloody lambs not meant for Irish stew.
This is what those who choose to wage their war
On statues and on graves can’t understand.
Combatants who might even up the score
They’d never dare to meet with ready hand.
What they assail, they lack heart to restore.
Before they face their test, they’re all unmanned.
***
Tom Riley was born in Buffalo, but through study has become a Rebel from Yankeeland. He works as a freelance copywriter and is the author of Love Poems of a Hatemonger and The Ghost of Biden’s Brain.
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Holy Ælfred the Great, King of England, South Patron, pray for us sinners at the Souð, unworthy though we are!
Anathema to the Union!
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