Grant’s Tomb

Horny-handed scions of the soil,
Loggers, and adult children of oil,
May visit here, and leave their souls.
Confirm them, soldier, in their roles.

Review our serried generals of peace,
Braided and squabbling for office.
Award them stars for being bright,
Hard-working, careful, and polite.

Gifts from the gods are gifts to own;
Generals are men. Our gifts are loans.
Blue, bearded Ulysses, our drinker,
Our only patron saint of failure,

I may yet stop by with open hands.
Try and be closed for maintenance.

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