THE "THIRD" DECREE
The judges were so very wise as any fool could see.
And they would solve the crisis with their solemn "third" decree.
In essence, every family would be limited to four;
A father, mother, a child or two, but never any more.
The law was retroactive, and so, in retrospect,
It went back several centuries, and then it took effect.
The population problem's solved, the judges all assured,
For you could have a child or two, but never have a third.
To celebrate their "third" decree, they'd go and see a play.
"Romeo and Juliet" should be in town that day.
The theater now was boarded shut, for it was plain to see
That Shakespeare wasn't even born, for he was number three.
When Easter rolled around that year, they dearly missed "Messiah,"
For Handel was born eighth of ten, a very social pariah.
And how the Frenchmen fumed to find there was no Joan of Arc,
'cause she was third of five, and so, her memory, just a lark.
And the eloquence of Webster will n'er be heard again.
Such a crying shame, my friends, old "Dan" was ninth of ten.
No more "The Ancient Mariner" will sail his voyage wild,
Samuel Coleridge, his creator, was also, a fourteenth child.
Don't look for Franklin's kite to fly, for it will not be seen;
Poor Ben's abolished like the rest, for he was child fifteen.
Goodbye to Christian Science, the judges all said nix,
For Mary Baker Eddy wasn't, cause she was number six.
Well, history books will all be changed; some names will not be heard.
So long to Thomas Jefferson, for he too was a third.
Good Garfield, you never were, what's more, you'll be no more.
Your parents, they were thoughtless, and you were number four.
But you are not alone, James, as you shall shortly see,
For President Hayes was also fourth; "Zach" Taylor, number three
The list seems never ending; it's really something fierce.
Another sixth child president, who wasn't, Franklin Pierce.
And music lovers will lament; some sure will suffer shock
To find there never was, nor will be, third son, Johann Bach.
Franz Schubert's "Ave Maria" was never, never heard.
Alas! Alack! We'll miss him so, for he too was a third.
The population explosion has even reached to Heaven;
St. Thomas Aquinas will have to go, for he was number seven.
St. Dominic, we'll miss you too, you were not meant to be.
In searching through the registers, we found you number three.
And since this law goes back in time, I find I too am nix.
This poem was never written, friends, for I was number six.
By Dave Kneeshaw
