The Rise of Valerie Macon

(to the tune of "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald")

The legend lives on from the Catawba on down,
Of the poet named laureate by McCrory,
Folks said O Brother. No one had heard of her,
Not a song, a poem, or story.
Of the governor and crew, none of them knew
Anyone reads this weird stuff they called poetry.
The post it was said was every bit as good as dead,
And he appointed a woman named Valerie.

(slide guitar in mournful sea chanty moan of Lake Superior)

The Laurel is the pride of the Creative side,
For whom the work of the words is of value.
The craft of the verse seems obsessive at first
But like love it serves to enthrall you.
And from Valerie’s pen flowed the truth of men
In lines that felt as they fell like renewal.
This was the gift of the poetic shift,
A storm in the soul that will call you.

(slide guitar in mournful sea chanty moan of Lake Superior)

When the press release came, the voices weren’t tame
That questioned the governor’s decision.
There was protocol in place and credentials to name
He’d completely ignored for some reason.
From Hendersonville high to Okracoke low
The poets posted on Facebook their questions.
Then the Monitor and then NPR
Gave North Carolina poetry their full attention.

(slide guitar in mournful sea chanty moan of Lake Superior)

Meanwhile at her desk, our poet laureate,
Valerie Macon, deleted her website.
Erased any clue of any image she once drew
With words that had given her delight.
The poems she loved, felt had come from above
Now trapped her in the harshest of spotlights.
For overnight fame was never good when it came
On the wings of a politician’s oversight.

(slide guitar in mournful sea chanty moan of Lake Superior)

Things had been quiet on the poetry side.
And since school it'd been easy to avoid it.
But now passions flared and the Governor was scared.
He thought it would be easier than this to destroy it
Within a matter of hours, he came down from his tower
And said Everyone can be a poet.
Like this he'd deregulate the Arts of the state.
By taking them into his pocket.

(slide guitar in mournful sea chanty moan of Lake Superior)

For seven long day’s neath the nauseating haze
Of the governor’s unceasing hubris.
Valerie’s pen beckoned Please use me again,
It wasn’t your idea to do this.
But Poetry’s shy when it’s been crushed by the sky.
It’s not something on the ego’s to-do list.
It’s a soul-given task, a beloved craft,
And McCrory’s great stunt abused it.

(slide guitar in mournful sea chanty moan of Lake Superior)

Now, poets are called hostile and cold
Instead of peaceful folk who like language.
Professor and King are for him kinda the same thing
And they needed to go out with the garbage.
Yet under it all, there’s yet this constant, wild call
Like a prayer that's as old as the ages.
The storm now has passed, and the poets all ask
Valerie, won’t you please come and write with us.


Surazeus said…
A rousing ditty that gets the feet stomping and the heart thumping with love for poetry and fame.

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