The Day They Murdered Camelot Poem by John F. McCullagh

.


One afternoon in Dallas, Texas
November, Nineteen sixty three
A brace of shots were fired
That would enter history

With Jacqueline beside him
in the presidential Limousine
John Kennedy was waving
taking in the happy scene.

Coming out of Dealy plaza
They made the turn on Elm
No shots had yet been fired
The day was mild and warm.

From above, Oswald was waiting
In the book deposit loft
His rifle at the ready
His prey scoped and crossed.

“You can't say that they don't love you”
the governor's wife said
From behind a shot was fired
a scoped rifle spitting lead.

J.F.K. then clutched his throat
And John Connelly his side
A second bullet hit a curb
and ricocheted aside.



The third shot was the killing shot
bone and brain cells flying
The Marines had trained the sniper well
and Camelot was dying.


That afternoon in Dallas
As darkness was descending
Did he think about his children
as consciousness was ebbing?


“Make for Parkland Hospital”
The secret service screamed
they'd failed to save the president
But who had done the deed?

Walter Cronkite told the nation
that Camelot was dead.
L.B.J. on Air Force One
became the nation’s head.

Back on the Streets of Dallas
Oswald had killed again.
An officer named Tippit
Lay in the gutter, dead.

Oswald was apprehended
In a movie house nearby
They found his nest and rifle
What they never found was why...

A nation mourned its President
on his final Caisson ride
and watched his little boy salute
standing by his Mother's side.