He arrived like a thunderstorm breaking decorum,
boots tracking mud across polished marble floors,
an accidental inheritance, carved by calculation’s misstep,
the cowboy they meant to bury quietly alive.
They had boxed him into shadows—willing obscurity,
a vice presidency meant to cinch his reins,
but fate cracked its knuckles, split open the plan,
and handed him the reins of an untamed nation.
Mark Hanna cursed the heavens on that somber day,
\"Now that damned cowboy wears the crown.\"
But Roosevelt, standing taller than his saddle,
rewrote their script in ink bold as prairie fire.
They couldn\'t see the prairie winds inside him,
nor the wilderness stitched into his convictions,
as he wrestled trees and trusts alike,
turned the ruggedness of himself into policy.
Seven and a half years of grit and teeth,
a presidency no cage could contain,
left behind not silence, but a roar,
an office swollen to fit his ambition’s size.