The Black-Eyed Pea War Poem by Richard D Remler

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In the Spring of Eighteen Forty-Eight,
On May the third, and very late,
Before the last crow of the night,
The Black-Eyed Peas rose up to fight.

They advanced just like a Summer storm,
Upon the young and growing Corn.
And routed each with but a spin.
This battle was an easy win.

............

They flanked the Lettuce without delay,
And led their prisoners away.
They cornered all the Lima Beans,
And captured all the Mustard Greens.

The Turnips were the next to go,
Beside the Carrots, row by row,
Where the Onion's fought a valiant fight,
Beneath the moonfall's waning light.

...........

Even the Crab Grass held its shaky ground,
Tough as the toughest nails around.
But the Black-Eyed Peas, in their vain conceit,
Did not know the word defeat.

They captured the Rutabaga's Royal Guard
And overtook the gently rooted Chard.
It was a treacherous coup de main,
When they attacked the tangent plane.

..........

They had no intentions to explore
That land beyond the Sycamore.
Where it is said the loaming earth is grand,
A parcel worthy to command.

Instead, they sought to ferret out
Every single Brussels Sprout.
To imprison every green Tomato,
And do away with each Potato.

.........

The Cauliflower gave up every ghost,
And abandoned every single post.
The Asparagus claimed no seasoned right,
And refused to put up any fight.

They surrendered without a violent thought,
Having fired not a single shot.
And hung their heads in great dismay,
As the Black-Eyed Peas led them away.

........


The moonlight waned through shades of blue,
As a looming darkness wandered through,
Thunder rumbled distant plains,
And with the thunder came the rains.

Each arpent shook against the sky,
And whispered out a deafening cry
That shuddered every acre fair,
Each set and single measured square.

.......

It brought a plague of wicked wind,
A fury it would not rescind.
And with it showered rain and hail,
That fell, and fell, and fell, and fell.

Thunder tore against the night
In a savage stab of winter blight
That swept up every hue and cry
Just underneath that starless sky.

......

When morning found the Sycamore,
There was no trace, no hint, no haunt of war.
There were no weapons cloaked in obscure caves,
No battle-scars, no mottled graves.

And as the slaty scales of morning set,
Across a hillside cold and wet,
Only the shades of an old Sycamore
Knew there had ever been a war.


Copyright © MMXIIRichard D. Remler