In Whoville-ish towns where the banners once waved,
A red cap appeared — bold, brash, and engraved.
“Make Things Just Right!” (or so the words go),
But the right kept shifting, oh no, oh no!
It perched on a head, then two, then ten,
Then hundreds marched, chanting, “Again! Again!”
Their eyes lost their twinkle, their grins turned to smirks,
As they trampled the flowers and silenced the quirks.
“The clocks must turn back!” the capped crowd decreed,
“To a time that’s less you and more us, guaranteed!”
They zipped up free speech, locked thoughts in a crate,
And declared, “This hat’s logic is simply first-rate!”
But deep in the back, where the whispers still grew,
A small voice piped up: “Wait — this won’t do!
A land that’s ‘great’ isn’t one-size, pre-defined —
It’s a patchwork of alls, not just some maligned!”
The hat-wearers bristled, “No questions! No doubt!
Just nod, cheer, and never dare peek out!”
Yet the more they squeezed, the more cracks split wide,
Till the hat’s shiny gloss couldn’t hide what’s inside.
For minds, once boxed, now rattled and roared,
“We won’t trade our maybes for your ironclad or!”
The caps started slipping, the chants lost their beat,
As the people remembered: True greatness can’t cheat.
So they tossed the red caps in a heap (what a sight!),
And vowed, “We’ll keep fighting for wrongs made right.
A land’s only ‘great’ when it lifts every you —
Not just those who fit in a hat’s narrow view!”
With a wink and a rhyme, let this tale be a nudge:
Beware tidy answers that judge, clamp, and grudge.
For the best stories bloom where all voices take part —
Not in the grip of a hat, but the beat of a heart.
Bob Lynn / 12-Feb-2025
