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
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Shadows in the past for all Great Men. The Legend always seems to win. Think of Jesse James. A very thoughtful piece