Lightly, to my Muse I tread
I know a poet who once said,
“A fine bud opens
To a finer flower
Not at the dawn
But at a later hour”
But rising with a rude awaken
I must conclude
I was mistaken
For do we want
The day, rehearsed?
Or views and news
Both fresh and first?
And what we hale as true and right
Is best seen by the early light
I ask, is deeper vision won
By light from stars or from the sun?
And so I make to you, confession
As I correct my first impression
And raise a cup of Joe to toast
America’s new morning host
At ease, as anyone can see
On CNN or NBC
Who sat in with eclectic bands
Steadfast on even shifting sands
To the lawless Left, anathema
In dignity, there’s none Lord Granthem-er
Astute, upright and furthermore
The master of the metaphor
A man to whom despair is foreign
Child of God and Son of Warren
An honor to his mom and dad
A Buckeye and a Harvard grad.
Who made a “10” on every quiz
Not perfect, just the best there is.
An Ode to Morning
(or you can’t go wrong by flattering the host) by Tarzana Joe
