The Warhawk - A Poem, by Ferrell Poe Hogg

This past midnight, dark and dreary, while I pondered weak and weary

Over headlines bleak and eerie, “Shock and Awe!” Yea, “Fire and Fury!”

All day came news, and pictures too, of mushroom clouds and missile crews,

Bombed out towns and immolation, submarines and radiation.

Fear and dread, yea trepidation!

Cold sweat ran from every pore,

Must close my eyes, can take no more,

Just cannot take this anymore.

While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of someone gently rapping, rapping on my cabin door.

“Tis my dog scratching,” this I said, “my dog scratching on my door,

Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, but then I did remember, my dog died this past December.

Died right here upon the floor, was this his ghost now at my door?

That frozen day I’d been hog hunting, hunting with my fierce Elmore.

He bayed a boar with razor tusk and in the twilight, just at dusk,

The big hog gored my dog Elmore, who bled to death upon my floor.

I killed the boar that killed Elmore, and there he lies forevermore.

Eagerly I wished the morrow – vainly I had sought to borrow

From my rest surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the dead Elmore.

But then, alas, more tapping on my door

Somewhat louder than before.

My heart was pounding, madly beating, so that now I stood repeating,

“Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my cabin door,

This it is and nothing more.”

And the silence yet unbroken,

Yea the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Elmore?”

This I whispered, merely this and nothing more.

Then I opened up the door.

Perplexity and consternation, without any hesitation,

A filthy, foul and stinking bird, flew past me through my door.

Right through my open door.

It circled round my cabin thrice then lighted on my table,

There he picked through dry pork ribs and ate as he was able.

“Vile pest be gone, back out my door!

“Fly out my door and nothing more!”

I dare drew near the squalid creature, when I saw his evil features;

I recognized the unclean fowl, a Warhawk with acerbic scowl!

Ghastly grim, his nostrils leaking, leaking neath his feathered cowl.

Wretch! I cried, you filthy fowl, in here your ilk I won’t allow,

Spreading death, annihilation! Throughout the earth, in every nation,

Where you dip thy fetid beak, dripping blood and havoc wreak!

How long will your wrath be poured?

Quoth the Warhawk, “Evermore.”

“Thou Warhawk! Loathsome creature I deplore!

Cause of death, despair and gore!

How long must men suffer thee? Tell me I implore.”

Quoth the Warhawk “Evermore.”

Iran, Iraq and Pakistan, Syria and Yemen,

Warm blood spattered, wet bones scattered,

Children, men and women.

“Damn you Warhawk! And thy kin!

By God’s grace I’ll kill thee then,

So shall end your wicked sin!

How much longer endless war?”

Quoth the Warhawk, “Evermore.”

Out from the fire I drew the poker, glowing from the ember,

So I began, with deep hatred, the Warhawk to dismember.

Striking craw, then wings and skull, I beat him till I wearied,

When confident he burned in hell, I rested from my fury.

“There,” I said, “and so much for,

Thine cold and hateful, ‘Evermore.’ ”

“Yea,” I said, “there is our parting, obscene bird and fiend,

Now be consumed in hades hot, your blood soaked feathers preen.”

And my own fire cast faint glow upon the beaten carcass,

“What you sowed, malignant fowl has now become thine harvest.”

Like the boar which killed Elmore

You are dead now “Evermore.”

I threw the carcass out my door,

Far from my cabin door.

To fitful, restless sleep I fell, had I removed the Warhawk’s spell?

His crushed remains outside my door, his spirit in perdition,

“I might have let him live,” I thought, “had he shown the least contrition.”

“Evermore”, indeed I said, “your wicked voice is stilled,

Impious, proud and insolent, how easily you were killed!”

And so I bid the beastly bird good riddance and farewell,

The saints and God, yea Jesus too, had once again prevailed.

Peace on earth, surcease of sorrow, now I rest, await the morrow.

But then, a tapping, as of someone gently rapping,

Rapping on my cabin door.