Eighty miles to the east
Lies a little town named West
And it’s no longer known for kolaches
It’s been drastically put to the test.

A tragedy befell them
Two days after big bombs blast
So many looked eastward
While neighbors and friends stood fast.

Not because we had no mercy
For those suffering in the East
But because our neighbors were in danger
And that means provide a feast.

And bring in lots of blankets
And scores of other things, too
Because you never know what your neighbor needs
And you refuse to give the devil his due.

And if that means you need
To donate something red
You rush to the nearest bloodmobile
And wait while you scratch your head.

For sadness is just sadness
And tears are all just tears
When tragedy strikes your town
And “front-and-centers” all your fears.

So, as we help our Texans
May Bostonians realize this
We feel the pain of your losing
And are ready to regain patriotic bliss.

Not just for this tiny place in Texas
But for runners and doctors and volunteers
Who rushed forward into “battle”
When tragedy took our peers.

Tomorrow’s Post: I need a nepenthe…