What's Donne is Donne
As militant Mullahs mutter and pray
And plan their Mosque near ground Zero
Protesters march and people say:
“This isn't right! They'll have to go.”
But let's demur and make no noise
No tears, no threats, no signs approve.
It would profane our civic faith
To tell the Mullah he must move.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Amontillado
Amontillado
Fortunato, I am called.
My friends rate me a connoisseur.
Tonight I wear a jester’s garb
for the feast day of misrule.
Tonight is fine, the wine flows free
With honeyed sweetness on my lips
My headgear rings with happiness
as I enjoy another sip..
Montresor came to speak with me
He wore a mask and monkish gown.
I shook the hand he offered me.
We spoke about a cask of wine.
A cask of sherry, dark and sweet
Amontillado- so he claimed
My friend had paid a premium.
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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At the Mendacity Institute
The Miss-Director was beaming with pride
as he came to escort me inside.
'Come along, these are perilous times,
there is much ugly truth we must hide.'
'Herr Goebbels was our school's inspiration.
Joe McCarthy taught here till he died.
Charlie Rangel is among our directors.
Our Grads over nations preside.'
'We recruit each years class from young children
who display a disdain for the truth.'
'We start with a class on tall stories,
progressing to fibs and untruths.'
'By the time they are teens they are ready
to leave little white lies behind.'
'They engage in deceit and deception.
These skills help them rob people blind.'
'With our Grad course in prevarication
They misdirect and deflect with the great.'
'Obama was born in Hawaii,
his foes say he was birthed out of state.'
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Family Portrait
The Tsar sat quiet and composed
His hands folded on his thigh
Around him were his daughters,
Four beauties with dark eyes
His faithful wife beside him
Posed regal and serene
Their little boy, Alexi,
kneeling there beside the Queen.
How different five years later
At their fatal, final scene
The Czar and the Czarina
Sat beside the heir, it seems.
The four girls were behind them
The maids and doctor too
All roused from sleep near midnight
by a rough and motley crew.
The White Russians were in battle
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Race for the Cure
I had a sister once
She had sunshine in her smile
She was everybody’s friend
For you she’d gladly walk a mile
When I see her in my mind’s eye
Jeanette’s forever young
When we lost her to the monster
She was only 41.
So that is why tomorrow
I’ll be racing for the cure.
With caregiver’s and survivors
We will beat the beast for sure.
And if my step should falter
As I am no longer young
Her ghost will run beside me
Until my race is run.
Perhaps you have a sister too,
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Dark Day without Rain
The General stood looking in the mirror
Perfectly attired, Cap a Pied.
He turned to me and said
'We must not delay this, Mister Marshall.
This bitter cup that fate has handed me'
I handed him his sword in silence.
We'd be fighting in the hills
Were it up to me,
but even I knew that our men
were starving, Surrounded,
there could be no victory.
Traveler was mounted in an instant
Few looked finer on a horse than
Our Robert Lee.
Under flag of truce we rode
to the McLean House,
there to await the modern Ulysses.
Grant rode up dressed in a Sergent's uniform,
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Easter Rising
eiri amach na casca
(the Easter rising)
The Proclamation had met with silence,
he must have known the fight was lost,
But, Connolly, faithful to the Cause,
Was accepting of its cost.
They took the Green, The inns of Court,
the Post on Sackville Street
De Valera stood at Bolandʼ s mill
the place where five roads meet.
Their commander, Pearse, a scholar,
Apportioned his menʼ s lives,
To garrison each strong point
Till the British would arrive.
Their tactics were pure suicide-
They could not hope to stand,
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Stray
Her husbands’ death had come upon him quick.
He’d always been so full of life and song.
She’d had no warning that her Tom was sick.
until he crumpled to the sidewalk and was gone.
The very day they put her husband in the ground,
a Jet black Lab with no collar or license
that she took to calling “Pepper” came around.
“He must belong to someone.” was her sense.
She put up signs and Ads and asked around.
She made inquiries to find the owner of the Lab.
No one in town had seen the dog before
the day they placed her man beneath the sod.
Pepper stayed faithfully at his mistress’ side
They took long walks down Beachcomber Way
Only Pepper heard the tears she cried
and stayed by her till the sadness passed away
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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The Boomer's Lament (A Country Western Song)
By the order of the Marshall
We don't live here any more
Our stuff is on the lawn
and there's a padlock on our door.
Then, while I was distracted,
reading the decree
Thieves made off with my HDTV
I once worked as a loan officer
at Mega Billions bank
We made some bad decisions
as the staff and assets shrank.
I was escorted from my desk
the day I got the shank-
My Boss made bonus- he has
TARP to thank.
By the order of the Marshall
We don't live here any more
Our stuff is on the lawn
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poem by John F. McCullagh
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Songs Without Words
When they brought him to the Hospital
He was listed as John Doe.
He would have liked the irony-
as Harry Chapin was well known.
His hair was like a lion’s mane
His face both kind and strong
Though doctor’s tried and nurses cried
Harry had sung his last song.
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