by Philip Kitcher

(With thanks to Rupert Brooke)

If I should die, think only this of me:
That there’s some corner of a Tulsa street
That is forever Trumpland. There shall be,
Lying beneath, a true Red heart, whose beat
Proclaims his glory; one that would agree
Not to disclose, never complain or sue;
But work undaunted for his victory,
Striving to stem the sinful surge of Blue.

And think this heart, transformed to higher state,
Its pulses quickened by the wondrous rays
Shed by his maskless Presence who once trod
These streets, throbs still to make our country great;
To lower taxes, purge the Dems and gays,
Ever to fight for Trump, for guns, for God.