WHEN Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin
in the dust, in the cool
And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral turned ashes
in the dust, in the
Pocahontas body, lovely as a poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she
in the dust, in the cool tombs?
Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns
tell me if the lovers are losers
tell me if any get more than the lovers
in the dust
in the cool tombs.