The Hollow Dream Called Glory Poem by John F. McCullagh

The scene at the graveyard in Louth was a circus;
The press was out in force with their cameramen there.
The grave, freshly dug, covered with a green carpet.
The smell of wet, fresh turned, earth filled the air.
As for the deceased: there were varied opinions.
Some called him a sinner; some thought him a Saint.
He was politically savvy but yet had done murder.
An angel corrupted by a simian taint.
None could dispute he had made his life matter.
The head of his party; His words carried clout.
Nevertheless, he died here in hospice.
His brothers in arms have carried him out
The power and glory he laid down and exchanged
for a plot and a stone in this graveyard in Louth.