The Song of Valerie Macon

categories: Cocktail Hour

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The Song of Valerie Macon

 

In the land of Pat McCrory,

Where we all live Art Pope’s story,

Where we all must praise the fetus,

Or else be damned as an elitist,

Came a poet brave and true.

Came a poet brave and true.

 

Not some fancy, school-learned bard,

Using words that are too hard,

No! A rhymer for the masses,

(When she wasn’t taking classes,

Or awards she wasn’t fakin’,)

In she strode, our Valerie Macon.

Decreed the One by Lord McCrory,

She would tell our state’s true story,

She would sing of sea and mountain,

Spewing as if from a fountain.

And she woulda, woulda too,

If not for fancy folks like you.

 

Out they crawled the poet folk,

And in that sneering voice they spoke,

“This Val she isn’t one of us,

She has no airs, she rides the bus,

She simply cannot wear the laurel,

She needs a poetry tutorial.”

And though old brave McCrory fought it,

It was clear that Val had bought it.

The fancy folk with their degrees,

Had brought proud Macon to her knees.

 

So sing with me of good Val Macon,

From whom the laurel wreath was taken.

It’s true she knew not meter nor diction,

(Though her resume showed a gift for fiction.)

Alas, her laureate days are fin,

(The poet lobby, they always win).

 

Who knows, if they hadn’t dragged her down,

She might have proudly worn the crown,

She might have sung of our great state,

Its tolerance, its beauty, and, yes, its hate

She might have turned on old McCrory,

She might have sung, in rage and glory,

“You’ve sold us out for Art Pope’s cash,

Your smallness spreads just like a rash.”

But no, we’ve driven her from town,

Dragging behind her faery gown.

 

And now the governor, surely vexed,

Decides alone who will be next.

He ponders hard, a brooding Zuess,

“Why not a poet I know….like Dr. Suess?

Or someone like me, a crony, a pal.

Uncluttered, unpublished, like our dear Val.”

But oh the fancy folk conspire,

And he doth know what they desire,

A poet like them, with prizes and books,

A stuck-up sort with priggish looks.

And so when the common man goes down,

Some Poindexter will wear the crown.

 

So sing once more of good Val Macon,

From whom the laurel wreath was taken,

Not some fancy professor dropping names,

Just doing her job: disability claims.

She could have sung of unwashed masses,

Instead she’ll be back in our classes.