raised on Tennessee pork
forced to commit dreaded deeds.
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
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.