Most people get a little patriotic around this time of the year. It's sort of inevitable when you see a marching band coming down the street playing "The Stars and Stripes Forever." Of course, it's an election year, so there are going to be plenty of politicians walking in the parades, shaking hands and handing out free pens.
Even though I didn't chose a Poet of the Week, I do have a poem for you guys tonight. Walt Whitman, the closest we in the United States have to a national poet. He is the voice of America. At least, that's what he always claimed.
Saint Marty is the voice of low self esteem and insane jealousy.
I Hear American Singing
by: Walt Whitman
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.