When I was young, my father musicked me
(by vinyl records and his reel-to-reel)
with opera, Broadway tunes and symphony,
in folksongs and their singalong appeal,
and Souza marches played by Army bands,
with jazz and ragtime, blues and their reverse,
and anthems from assorted foreign lands:
We all agreed “Finlandia” was first.

Admitting ours is difficult to sing,
the tune too forced to merit the attempt,
and words so weak they signify no thing
worth standing for, I scoffed and never dreamt
a swamp of fools would call it powerful,
and cast it as the season’s golden bull.