It would be the oddest prom night this land had ever seen;
The dance hall would be deserted and there would be no King or Queen.
No Chaperones would be required and the band would play no sound
For the silent generation is nowhere to be found.

They might have all been beautiful; some members would be wise.
For all we know they might have all  been  angels in disguise.
The silent generation died before they took a breath.
This reverses nature’s course wherein birth occurs, then death.

In truth, they never played the game. They never learned a word.
Their departure from existence went largely unobserved.
They said no word in their defense before they were put down
For the silent generation is nowhere to be found.

On every college campus they would fill each empty chair.
Our stadiums would rock with sound, if only they were there.
If they were born America would be a touch less gray,
But the silent generation never saw the light of day.

A steady gentle rain had fallen throughout the night before.
Morning dawned , grey and dreary, like the butternut they wore.
A.P. Hill was on the march, speeding towards the sound,
the distant sounds of battle, as they marched through Frederick town.

The rebel brain trust harbored hopes that Maryland might secede.
That a hero’s welcome waited for Lee riding in the lead.
But no, the streets were silent, most folks hid inside their homes.
They cheered instead, the boys in blue and cheered for them alone.

The rebels marched down Patrick Street as they sped through Frederick Town.
Then General Hill spied the Stars and Stripes and ordered them struck down.
It was Mary Quantrell who showed the flag, in defiance of the troops.
(Whittier misidentified his heroine in hoops.)

It was Mary, all defiant, who displayed our nation’s flag;
a brave matron of thirty years, no ninety year old hag.
“You may **** me if you must; my life is hardly charmed,
But I will die before I see this banner come to harm.”

Her warning gave the general pause, perhaps in part because.
He had himself once sworn to protect that banner and that cause.
He countermanded, then and there, the order that he gave.
He pressed on to Antietam where the hard pressed Lee was saved.

Mary has no monument, these days, in Frederick town;
No mention on her grave stone how she faced a General down.
There’s no honor in her hometown for this heroine with pluck.
That Barbara Fritchie legend?- Just some poet run amuck.

This is my last year teaching, here, at Columbine.
I’ll be leaving Colorado and these bad memories far behind..
The kids come into homeroom and each year it’s the same.
The seat where Eric Harris sat is one that’s never claimed.

I guess, as High School massacres rank, others , since, were worse.
We suffer notoriety because we were the first.
The names and faces of the dead still haunt me in my sleep.
I had the charge to keep them safe; a charge I failed to keep.

Eric was intelligent; in a different place and time,
He might have found a better use for his creative mind.
But he was often bullied; I had  failed to intervene.
Some say he thirsted for revenge both brutal and obscene.

On April twentieth of Ninety nine, he and Dylan came here late.
Eric warned one friend to flee; to stay was a mistake.
I heard the first shots fired and saw bodies hit the floor.
They headed for the library.  I hid and locked the door.

I confess I was a coward; I was no hero born to save
Those young and beautiful children destined for an early grave.
I hid, as many others did, and cringed at every blast,
As youthful dreams were shattered and this day became their last..


In the end they died as suicides. Their crude bombs had failed to blow.
Had their plot been a complete success- we’d all have died, I know.
Instead I’ve lived with my regrets, my shame and my despair;
haunted always by my guilt and Eric’s empty chair.

As he watched her walk away,
fading quickly in the dark.
He fought back a sob, a tear,
as he nursed his damaged heart.
She had made her choice at last
and brought an end to their affair.
A universe of might- have- beens
vanished on that cold night's air.
How bleak his future looked right then
for she would not dwell there.
Triangles are difficult
and swans belong in pairs.
His children he saw in her eyes
now never would be born.
He would find another Lover
but never Rose without a thorn.

“There’s nothing here worth saving.”
I knew that she was right.
It ended, oh so calmly, no screaming match or fight.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,
  Call it a Night.

For many years we’d lived a lie, persisting in a sad mistake.
The only Love you get to keep is only that Love you make.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,

  Call it a Night.

Some folks will be surprised I guess. Others, knowingly, will nod.
The warning signs were always there; as obvious as God.

Call it a Night,

Call it a Night,

  Call it a Night.

We knew of your use of Holinshed; that you “borrowed” from Plutarch’s Lives”
We suspected you dredged for characters in various bars and dives.
Now scholars have discovered your main source of “Richard the Third”
From which you borrowed liberally, and sometimes word for word.
Macbeth, King Lear, the gang’s all here -you scene steal-er you!  
(You rummaged Marlowe’s “The Jew of Malta” for your Venetian Jew.)
Sophisticated software has snared you in its trap;
As you read North’s manuscript, bet  you never thought of that!


Since you are my favorite dramatist, I’m inclined to let this pass.
If you were a college Freshman- I’d be seeing you after class!