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!
(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!
-
Author:
rew4er2nail (
Offline) - Published: April 7th, 2018 00:59
- Category: Sad
- Views: 9
Offline)
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