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

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 to travel 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 twilight zone pallor

tubby somewhat exact

from mighty robber barons,

who tolerated no flack
(nope not even Roberta)

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 lung wrenching tuberculosis hack,

this twenty first century middle 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

calamitous event) in non black

and white (digitally remastered technicolor)

exemplified, enumerated, and emphasized
how a minor dispute got way off,track

whereat 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 substitute 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

Ides of March death didst dance
during the low key celebration sans,

internecine bloodbath Grants'

and Lees' armistice

one hundred and fifty seven years ago;

the peace treaty signed

(April 9th, 1865) at Appomattox,

an irrevocable agony did blow

when that fateful, mournful,

somber night at Ford's Theater

the grim reaper didst appear

(like Jim) crow king

ably linkedin with Reconstruction

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