It’s National Iowahawk Day.

At the bending of the river
Where it bows the brackish water
In the fertile land of Hawkeyes
Where the Hy-Vee vends its groceries
And employees own the business
There was taught the Iowahawk.

He did not come from Wisconsin
Nor from Illinois corrupted
Nor from Minnesota land of
Many lakes and taxi drivers
Who will not transport you far if
You have with you juice of grapevine
Bought at duty free at airport.
Not Nebraska where the flatland
Stretches on past Ogalala
Ever stretching are we there yet
Till it comes to Colorado
Where the students go for spring break
There to drink the beer refreshing
But diluted, cannot seem to get a
Buzz on, what is this swill?

Nor Missouri, better beer there
Taken from the proud Milwaukee
Like the ball team to Atlanta.
But in Iowa was he nurtured
At the workshop of the writers
At the Foxhead bar he haunted
Playing billiards with professors.

Later he went to Chicago
Place where many things were happening
Though the football team was hapless
That requires a quaterback still
Still and ever, never changing.
And he found the internet there
Tubes in series, linked together
Where he made the blog that many
Found remarkable and laughing
Asked of themselves, “Who is Dave Burge,
Man we call the Iowahawk,
Who has genius to resemble
Any writer past or present
Whether it be Hunter Thompson,
Homer eld of Grecian glory,
Chaucer ribald and yet stately?
Wherefore comes he, raiment splendid,
Clothed in tropes so tightly woven
Out of matter hempen homespun,
Writing of tattoos and hot rods
Making light of that which presses
Round our throats like garrots tightening
Or when natives stake you out in
Wastelands with your nipples impaled?
He is Iowahawk of Typepad
Master of the sparkling send-up
When he posts, then douchebags tremble
Realizing they’ve been skewered
And with no recourse to match him:
Mighty Burge, the Iowahawk!”