Picket’s Charge Poem by Robert Sheridan

One o'clock in the yard among horses tied - neigh I say
The remains of whitewash held upright – canned tight
Pecan shells busted in the grass – squirrels carried off to trees
Impossible for children to report their work – played to relieve
One in the swing of things – “you ain’t got that thing. . .”
One went through the screen on the door – flies delight
And two others played hide and go seek – “seek and ye shall find”
The Northern home a comfort from where the Confederate’s roamed;
During the serenade the pickets stood at an angle in the ground
Concentrated upon the victory of their foes – just for the fun
With the idea of reserving the wooden ammunition – for the assault
Crossing the depression of the ground – dared to cross the maypole round
Started toward the clump of weeping-willows – hid behind the vines
Picket’s division advanced with the wooden brigade – planking movement
The assault was made after the Irish Whiskey break – ‘Irish I were in the land of. . .’
Picket’s place of formation was but twenty-five yards from the damn Yankees’
But the drifting wood of Picket’s division exposed the planks of his right brigade – to the fireballs of Abner Doubleday’s sandlot play
Coming within fifty paces of Northern inhospitality spaces – it was three strikes your out
Of the hundreds and hundreds of boards Picket took into action – most were Union-Gapped, had become a midsummer night’s scream.

'2007'