I’ve heard it said that Gettysburg was written on a train.
I’ve heard it said that no great art can exist without great pain.
I don’t know about the second, but if the first is true…
Then I’m Lincoln, bitch, so bite me… Who the hell are you?
Okay, you’ve got me sir, I do confess –
Your point I do concede-
When Lincoln wrote his great Address,
It wasn’t at this speed.
And he didn’t have an iPhone, nor Stone Beer in his hand…
What he had that I don’t have was concern for fellow Man.
I fancy myself nice and such, but Lincoln? No, in truth-
Late twenties? Sort-of actor?
I’m more like that dickhead Booth.
Nevertheless, sitting here, drinking my eight dollar brew,
I try to envision kinship with the mighty…
You know who.
I have the hat, but not the brain, and probably not the skill…
I don’t split rails, I just drink beer…
I’m limited in will.
Yet on this train I sit to think
Of being just like him…
Could I pull a nation from the brink?
Despite the outlook grim?
I write on trains and wear big hats,
The similarities end here-
But if I try a little harder-
Oh, fuck it. I want more beer.