Tuesday, August 16, 2005

A Toast to Silver Tip
(In memory of Great Uncle Chris
Sand, who died of cancer this week.)

It ain’t exactly like a lightning bolt
That somehow finds your address on the map
And takes your life with one fast fright’ning jolt
Before you even hear the thunder clap

It's nothing like a dose of friendly fire
A patriotic bullet through your brain
An oxymoron Orwell might admire
It’s lost on you, though, ‘cause you've just been slain

An’ yes, he was a military man
And once upon a time a cowboy, too
But how things can re-form within that span
From when we’re born to when we’re born anew

He could’ve done what other soldiers done
And maybe been less troubled by his lot
Taken down a favorite huntin' gun
And finished up with one decisive shot

But . . . what dreams may come? as Hamlet use to spin
What dreams may come, we ask, for who's to know?
Perhaps like snakes we shuffle off a skin
('Cept snakes don't seem to worry where they go)

Thus conscience does make humans of us all
Like Sisyphus we struggle and we slip
Yet somehow resurrect each time we fall
So here's a toast to Uncle Silver Tip.

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