A tribute to the first Saturday in May
Think not of Trojan Wars on ancient ground;
These adversaries stride with modern grace.
Here, over hallowed ground, they must retrace
Hoof prints of the ghosts who once were crowned.
Let pageantry and pomp consume the air,
As multitudes embark on spired dreams.
Memories spawn reverence, so it seems
Two minutes alter lives beyond compare.
Bright hats and roses, red in color, shine,
While Stephen Foster’s hymn elicits tears.
Angelic beasts parade along, in time
Anticipation quickly disappears.
Eighty thundering hooves, euphoric sound
Is testament our newborn king is found.