The First is a High

The first is always a high,

Our past time swinging happily.

Yet The Fourth is a wild ride,

The past-prime bitching on TV.

Twelve angry men convicting the mess,

While the proud boys refused to hide.

A joke charged with prejudice,

Contagious call of straight-line pride.

It wasn’t enough.

In the game of poker,

Call our bluff:

We’re no longer sober.

The Louisville slugs are heading north!

A grand slam of our home base

A grand shame to rip on the good land

A dull shade of an orange face.

Once July comes, we’ll don the apparel

Of triumph, spite and boast

And when it stays, the average Joe abides

In the psyche that was sold.

All alone in the post,

Wallowing in the morgue

Raise some New Glarus, a toast

Traumatic stress of the jury’s war.

Cover the joys of June in barbed wire,

Drain the polychrome stain.

Swamp the blues in red and white desire,

And throw our pride into the flame.

We were the colors of June yesterday.

Smiles in bloom, now a mere haze.

The flames of fire fading away,

Throwing us into Yankee Doodle daze.

We rode the rainbow road in grace

Six lanes congested on the interstate

Northern neighbor burning maple glaze

Another summer is going to waste.

The gorge of the river:

A mere Wisconsin hell.

The judge starts to shiver:

A poor deck he was dealt.

Twelve angry men, one collective sigh

Folding their hands against the brave.

Merchan knows the first is a high,

But The Fourth leaves all afraid.