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Ford\'s Theater, April 15th, 1865,

Petersen House, Washington, D.C.  

 (i admit to own a passion for the Civil War in general, 
and the life and death of 
the sixteenth president in particular).   between a hard spot of whiskey       and draughts of arrack nonetheless (without doubt), this Yankee       would be fain toot ravel back    to Antebellum America       amidst the urban din and clack
where smelting earsplitting,       choking industrialization         a deaf fin hit drawback,
and where dark shadows cast an eternal       edge of night pallor tubby somewhat exact      from mighty robber barons,        who tolerated no flack despite the (bleeding nose against grindstone)       inhumanity bearing down hard       with very little giveback       viz zit head as greenback
yes...no matter the noxious       crash course urbanization 
     (and attendant ghettoization)       breeding a lunging tuberculosis hack   this twenty first century mid dull aged       married man (an average Monterey Jack
     ass), whose sought after       claim to fame penchant         modestly admits to whiz knack crafting literary concoctions with no lack
of ideas, where one arose       strong as an oncoming mack
     truck (this vibrant fascination       with the American Civil War       (even before Ken Burns popularized       this calamitous event) in nonblack    and white (digital remastered technicolor)       exemplified, enumerated, and emphasized
     how a minor dispute got way offtrack whereat the stately commander in chief did pack    a punch analogous sans,       barreling forth       like unstoppable quarterback despite his six foot four inch         gangly physique cull rack tried his darnedest       (or unprintable epithet) yet a coterie of anti war subjects       figuratively and literally up in arms 
     wanted nothing less to sack the sixteenth president     whose aged fifty seven year old countenance 
one month after the Ides of March death didst dance
during the low key celebration sans,       internecine bloodbath Grants\'   and Lees\' armistice       one hundred and fifty three years ago  the peace treaty signed at Appomattox,       an irrevocable agony did blow  when that fateful, mournful,         somber night at Ford\'s Theater       the grim reaper didst (like Jim) crow after one shot rang out blasting,       where crimson tide didst flow
drowning American history       at that juncture grow
wing no less painless today, which hoo
veer ring agony didst smite          incomprehensible cleft mow wing down unfinished ambition, which no one other than Abraham Lincoln could sow
the racial rift, that slavery trucked in tow
generations shackled with compounded woe!