Garry Owen.(Poem)

 
GARY OWEN 
 
   At four, the city's lights go black, the cliques 
   Light their lanterns, shout and strike 
   A city-wide unison. Carnival comes 
   Once more to Basel, to the Gothic streets, to 
   The Totentanzgasslein, to the Mansterplatz, 
   Fasnacht to chase out winter, to bring 
   Spring to the Rhine. The bands, being Swiss, 
   All play the same set of tunes, fifes and drums 
   And the blood-soaked hymnody that belongs 
   To fifes and drums, here defanged, declawed, 
   Neutered; the bands, being Swiss, know how to 
   keep 
   An ancient facade intact while gutting 
   The structure inside of function, remaking 
   It clean, cosy, quaint and nice, gemutlich. 
   The bands play the marches straight and at 
   tempo, 
   Slow step that kept the well-flogged infantry 
   Plowing through grapeshot in a well-dressed 
   line, 
   Till the survivors could close to fifty yards, 
   volley, 
   And finish it with the bayonet. The masks, 
   The costumes, the occasion itself launder 
   And mitigate these tunes, that for me still bite: 
   "The Grenadier Guards", "The Girl I Left 
   Behind Me", 
   "Garry Owen", Custer's own signature tune. 
 
   How many movies did I see where he thundered 
   Through his fake Wild West until at last glory 
   Caught up and he died, ham acting to the last 
   Frame, all to the glory of Garry Owen? 
   At first light, I head home chilled, sleep-lagged, 
   soaked 
   To the bone's marrow with fifes, with drums, in 
   Remembered battle that I really don't ...