The Ballad of Late May

The month of May is drawing closed In a Manhattan court, a story's posed A former king on a wooden chair The whole world stops to watch and stare For twelve good souls to weigh the truth Of deals made in his bygone youth While lawyers weave their final plea For what the history books will be. But west, where Iowa's fields are green A darker, wilder storm was seen The sky turned gray, the siren cried Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide The twister danced a fearsome reel

Made a rich man's problems feel less real Tore homes to splinters, wood, and wire Fueled by nature's ancient fire. Oh, the headlines shout, the tickers run It's the same old tale beneath the sun A game of power, a test of might A struggle for the dark and light And the traveler just plucks a string For the same old song the ages sing. They count the votes and check the polls It takes a toll on weary souls The price of bread, the cost of gas They hope the hardest times will pass

Memorial Day is on its way To honor debts we still must pay For forgotten wars and fallen friends On whom this fragile peace depends. So tell me what the bards will write About this long and restless night? The verdict whispered in the hall? Or the neighbor who answered duty's call When the winds had passed and broke the dawn To help rebuild a shattered lawn? Oh, the headlines shout, the tickers run It's the same old tale beneath the sun A game of power, a test of might

A struggle for the dark and light And the traveler just plucks a string For the same old song the ages sing.