The bearded man in the forager’s cap rode in on little sorrel that night.
Lee had called a council of war to game plan for the coming fight.
The Northern aggressors were on the move but they might be vulnerable on their right.
It was a bold audacious plan to divide in the face of the foe.
The Calvary screen was key to the scheme to find where best to strike the blow.
The battle would be called Lee’s masterpiece; ******’s men broke and they fled.
but the battle would also be Jackson’s last; in just a few days he’d be dead..
In the dark of May second, men rode the plank road, Jackson rode at their head
Did they ignore the Sentry’s challenge? Or did the sentry mishear what they said?
They took Jackson arm, the saw-blade did sing, but alas it was to no avail
He crossed over the river to rest neath the shade of the trees in the hero’s vale

Keep us out of the ballpark.
Keep fans out so no crowd.
Instead Steal Doritos and grab free beers
There's no stretch in the seventh
cause nobody's here!
Oh it's loot, loot, loot from the storefronts
If we get caught its a shame!
and its one, two, three cops knocked out
at the old brawl game.

Keep us out of the ballpark
ban the fans from the stands
The vendors laid off cause there's nobody here
he's out of a job cause no one's buying beer
Oh its loot, loot, loot from the storefronts-
that Freddie Grey's dead -it's a shame
and it's one, two, three cops knocked out
at the old brawl game

When police were called it was too late, he could not be revived
Peter Cronkite, just twenty two, had committed suicide.
He was a natural athlete, handsome and well bred.
He fell victim to the demons that were screaming in his head.
His whole life lay before him: he’d been dealt a decent hand.
He chose a common grave instead- for reasons we can’t understand.
In life we all make choices and young Cronkite has made his,
As Grandpa Walter often said: “And that’s the way it is..”

The silver mustang was aflame, her pilot young, gallant.
They were spiraling towards the steeple in the village of Les Ventes.
With his last strength, that dying man pulled hard upon the stick
and willed the plane beyond the town out where the woods were thick.
He may well have already died before his plane hit down.
The flames shot high up in the air and scorched the fertile ground.
The villagers all recognized his act had spared their lives.
They honored he who died so that his memory survived.
His name is on a village street and flowers are piled high
Upon the grave where Billy slept when he tumbled from the sky.
His wife of six weeks never knew, til now, how Billy died,
but, ever faithful, she remained, no one else’s bride.
Fair France bears faded wounds of war, wounds she cannot hide.
Les Ventes recalls a hero’s death and warms his love with pride.

When Whitman wrote his "Leaves of Grass"
he was a man before his time.
Just ten years - the span of his career-
before he wrote his final line.
He never asked to have the gift
he could not un-see what he saw.
His sensibilities were formed
in the crucible of civil war.
He wrote beautifully of loss
in words that he was proud to sign.
Now I too know how he felt
as he approached the finish line

“I thought you said that they would come. “Ray said it with a sigh.
Outside the ballpark Chaos reigned as another city died.
At Camden Yards a game was played; no fans were let inside.
Terry sadly eyed the scene and fought the urge to cry.
For baseball represents the best that America could be,
until hatred triumphed teamwork, forging chains of misery.
The inner harbor is in flames and they’ll not soon subside
The bitter angels of our nature ruled as another city died.
In time the final out was made and the players left the field.
The home team lost, no save was made

And no one’s wounds were healed.

Once, back in the day, when you were still teens,
I won the decathlon, a pole vaulting fiend.
On bright orange boxes my face could be seen.
It seemed like I was living the American dream.

Yet my role as a hero was all just a pose.
I never felt comfortable wearing men’s clothes.
I longed for the feel of lace upon skin.
I just didn’t belong in the body I’m in.

I longed to be pretty, I needed a change-
with money no object that could be arranged.
Hormonal treatments would help my ***** blossom
They made my skin soft and they rounded my bottom.

Now in stockings and gingham I’m making the scene,
The thing I’ve most wanted since I was a teen.
Those parts that defined me- now surgically gone,
I just don’t know whether to scratch or to yawn.