Sunday, November 12, 2006

Good Sir Reb

The mad dog in mad fashion howls,
and acid gut doth churn in the bowl;
this man of honor, he roams this earth
like the razorback in deep, mud-hole bearth.

He was raised like the pit bull,
with the taste of blood in his gullet,
welling hunger within not near full
yet with sharp eye and aim he places the bullet.

This man of honor, it was planted deep
Yes Sir, yes M'am, toss and turn, no sleep.
He'd open doors for the less polite
he'd help the stranger in the darkest night.

The Southern man with his rebel's cross,
roaming the Southland, his blood like the frost.
From clan of old country to kin of today,
his hands were all weathered, fingers they were splayed.

Much work, much agony but with it shagrin,
for some Yankee she-devil to beguile him again.
There is no pleasure in pain, it deep within
the pain does not surface for dishonor the sin.

So he roams the mad earth in the darkest of night,
he seeks only comfort from Eden's white light.
For this modern-day gallant, riding white steed
he thinks not of dishonor, for in it the soul itself would bleed.

With love of the country and love of the land,
this Knight of the valley who'd joined with the band.
The brotherhood of righteous, and in it delight,
for this man of the Southland, this modern white knight.

So onward and upward he travels beyond,
through dark northumberland, and rank, filthy pond.
Through Satan's veiled plight, and the craigs of the hills
he'd ride fast as lightning, chasing enemies for thrill.

Some say he's a ghost of long-past rivalry,
to others a haint of some misbegotten chivalry.
But the way of the man is chiseled in heart
like the mason or sculptor beauty in rock split apart.

While no sword could split him (for his soul already rent)
in living all the pleasure, and the pleasure now spent.
So hail to the enemy, as he runs and he flees,
this ghost of the Southland shall drive him to knee.

Will his honor secure him? Will mercy prevail?
To this Knight of honor, would he drive the nail?
With the Way as atonement, and the word as his bread,
He rides chasing heathens to that land of the dead.

Onward and upward, white knight, white steed
the enemy he beckons and plants evil seed.
Weak minds he will tangle in an intricate knot
manipulating their hearts in diabolic plot.

With the truth a rock for your foundation
you'll ride the wind, oh hope of haggard Nation.
With the enemy's dark lies still ringing in ear
let not evil talon pierce brethren heart with fear.

Of rising and falling, the waves perservere
and pound solid shoreline (as in constant arrear).
We owe lying beast his one final stroke,
to cut off his head and cast it afloat.

So stand for the righteous and stand for the true,
your heart beats with fire and will never be blue.
Rattle their cages and poke them with brands,
these, Lucifer's liars, misbegotten cads.


Xavier Martel said...

Well done! You've managed to work in both the "South will rise again" theme (mitigated by honesty) and the plague of democrat's victories. And I was able to follow your meter. Excellent work, Stan!

Standifer Evasto Visum said...
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
Standifer Evasto Visum said...

From a writer such as you, Xavier, "spectare optimus".

Xavier Martel said...

Oh - also I missed your reference to Tennessee's mauling at the hands of the Arkansas team. Subtlety, thy name is Visum.

Standifer Evasto Visum said...

Yes, although it was the image of a German hunter in the Smokies that evoked the imagery of the boar in torn and trampled earth...I had a feeling that contemporary events would also be in the play...danged ol' land o' Clinton...