Three score and sixteen years ago

A Father and a Mom brought forth

A baby boy into the world, or so

The story goes, for what it’s worth.


They wrapped the babe in flour sacks,

To hide the print they used the backs,

And laid him in the box the Silvertone

Came in. And in so far as can be shown

By anyone who could have known

He was conceived the usual way.

If not, I’ve not heard anyone say.

The neighbors, they’d have known for sure

And they’d have passed it on for sure.


No virgin births for me,

I want a Father I can see,

Is what they say he said

As he lay in his birthing bed.


The night when he was born, so far

As anyone could see, no bright new star

Showed up above them in the sky,

No strangers on the road stopped by

To see the little chap, no gifts

Or any other thing that lifts

His birth above the ordinary,

Nothing to suggest the strangers tarry

[If indeed they had dropped by].


No angels sang or otherwise harked upon it.

No one at the paper in the nearby town

Saw fit to write it up or down

Or otherwise remarked upon it.


Just an entry in the Book,

The family Bible. Otherwise don’t look

For any mention of my pedigree.

Except perhaps if you should Google me

[As I have done a time or two],

A line or two below my name for you

To scan may come up from the maw. But don’t

Expect to be impressed; you won’t

Be. Nothing like a Holy War to make

One’s name or hang around one’s neck

[Or be hung for], no speech one writes

In pencil on the back side of a letter

Traveling to the site, designed to take

The Art of Rhetoric to new heights,

The likes of which have not been heard

Or seen before or after. Heck,

I doubt if Shakespeare could’ve done it better,

Piled the weight as high on every word

And kept the count as low. No cabin, just a shack

To be born in, no bleached blonde hair, no sweater

To fill out so splendidly. The place, like many others,

Sent its fathers, friends, and brothers

Off to fight a war its leaders got them in,

A war in which a lot of men

Got sacrificed for God knows what

When they might well have walked

Away, come back another day and talked

About the reasons why the two should not

Divide, and then have talked some more

About what came between them, tore

The two apart, how to get back

Together, to be one again.


Then there would not have been a war.

There’d not have been a place in history or

The fame He’d set his heart on as a kid.

He’d not have said and done the things He did,

He would have done an even greater thing

By doing what He didn’t do, by reasoning.


Draft 2 26 feb 09 3 mar 4 11 12 20 fri d fulgham

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