The  general was in a race with Death.
His memoirs ,if finished, some comfort would provide.
Yet a cancer was eating  at his throat.
His doctors all thought it a matter of time.

Each day he forced himself to write,
although his pain could not be denied.
Sometimes he caught himself staring at his gun,
Entertaining thoughts of suicide.

No, he thought, that's not my way.
The book I'm writing will provide
for my wife Julia in her old age;
an old age I will be denied.

With a firm command of names and dates
He spun his tale of Civil War.
Eight years in the White House He spent.
Years marked with scandals not seen before.

He had seen his share of war
Surely no man longed more for surcease.
He sent his final chapter to press.
Word shortly followed: "Grant is deceased."