At the Gravesite of Richard Mentor Johnson

The marble eagle perched atop the tall white column
With a wreath of laurel clutched firmly in its beak
Is a symbol of the young Nation's gratitude
To you, Colonel Johnson; Vice-President, Soldier
And slayer of the valiant Chief Tecumseh.

Egyptian Pharaohs adorned their dark chamber walls
With scenes of triumph. You drank a flagon full too, Sir.
You let the victory at the Battle of the Thames
Boost you into Van Buren's Vice-Presidency.
A heartbeat ahead of the prize you ran with him again
Against the Whig ticket of Harrison and Tyler.
When the slogan "Tippecanoe and Tyler too!"
Was bellowed, good Democrats would yell "Rumpsey Dumpsey!
Rompsey Dumpsey! Colonel Johnson KILLED Tecumsey!"
Yeah, you guys really knew how to get down to the issues back
then.

If an elaborate marble tribute is a gauge
Of greatness, Colonel, you were a hell of a man.
Homer, Hannibal and Tecumseh have no gravesite
Memorials, but you have a bas-relief of you
On horseback slaying the noble Chief Tecumseh.
From a white man's elevated horseback status
Your pistol triumphs over Red-Man's tomahawk.
The Chief's knees buckle like broken boughs, his body
Falling backwards into the lap of autumn frost; this death
Etched in stone is that of the brave Chief Tecumseh.

Tecumseh saw the end coming, Colonel Johnson.
He told Harrison at the great council at Grouseland,
"Your great Chief far off won't be injured by war.
He'll sit in town and drink his wine while you and I fight it
out."
He divined his death in the entrails of change and donned
His warpaint to meet it like a man. Could've you
Been as noble Colonel Johnson? To have outlived
His wits, a slovenly, ill-kept tavern keeper like you,
Age-ravaged and babbling drivel, was a finish
That Tecumseh would have rather ended than endured.

Was this the apex of your career then, Colonel,
That you celebrate in the permanency of stone?
Tying Tecumseh's life like a scalp to your belt
By depicting your role in his death. How pathetic.
His words and deeds still spark our imagination
While your boastful monument is all that remains
To testify to your greatness, and its mute voice
Is slowly giving way to the weathering of time.