With apologies to LTC John McCrae I present “In the Fields of Bowling Green” an alternative-poem.
In Bowling Green so-called poppies blow
Between alt-crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The Cardinals, still so-called singing, fly
Scarce heard amid Trump lies so low.
We are alt-Dead. Six or so years ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In the fields of Bowling Green.
Take up our quarrel with the alt-foe:
To you from small hands we throw
The torch be yours, let it show all Trump lie.
If not ye break faith with us, who alt-die.
We shall sleep, as so-called poppies grow
In fields of Bowling Green.