No John-John-John

He showed us his mettle while young,
saluting the dad while muskets rung;
our Irish hopes were flying with he...
by George he sailed into history,
with his bride, expectantly, one
who carried the John-John-John.

Small salute lives in tabloid still,
mettle forged in family history mill
warmed and tempered in nation's embrace;
seeking earnestly to find his own place,
his own office, fairly destined to be won
though now there'll be no John-John-John.

Devil as co-pilot, land's long lost hope
like some Icarus climbing afar, too close
to the golden son the father conceived,
dream dashed on the streets of big D;
now ashes, rent garments, hope none,
clarion call: no John-John-John.