Gobbler-caller York

raised on Tennessee pork

shipped overseas

forced to commit dreaded deeds.

Conscientious objector

rifle-bored projector

captured Tuetonic battalions

easy as pickin’ wild scallions.

Hero of a nation

Shunned all such adoration

(he, of dirt road motivation)

Never mind the French rains

He blew away dozens of German brains

Took no pleasure

In applying the Final Measure

Ignored grenade-lob

Detested the war-job

Perplexed by Manhattan ticker-tape mob.

Turned his back on newspaper wow

Preferred to labor behind horse-drawn plow

Why such fuss?

Over this man who didn’t cuss

Shunned the interview

(reckoned the Good Lord would see him thru)

Gave few speeches

Happier at last cannin’ peaches.


Yonder he lies in eternal sleep

the last Appalachian long hunter (the kinfolk weep)

Down in the valley of the Three Forks of the Wolf

His spirit in step with horse’s hoof

Far removed from deadly Argonne Forest

Greater by far than any mythological Taurus.


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