President Washington's Tale Poem by Sheena Blackhall

Everywhere needs its little piece of fame.
Let Parson Weems, a first class maker of myths
Pull back the screen of history
(A curtain fringed with cherries, for the clueless)

‘I cannot tell a lie'
Was one of the ripest sayings
Ever to make a hero.
Fables maketh the man.

Pa Washington has had his tree chopped down
Red-handed, George is standing, holding hatchet

Storm clouds hang in the air
There may be trouble ahead
Let's face the music and dance
Doesn't fit with the gnome-like face
The reluctance to give up the axe.

And how humiliating,
There in the background
A beautiful black son
Is holding a ladder up for his
Equally graceful mama
To pick the cherries

It's a wonder Papa Washington
Didn't choke upon the stones