An Ode to the Olympic Sweater

My eyes widen, and a patriotic spark awakens
My senses, as though of Coca-Cola I had drunk,
Or inhaled a Big-Mac with four slices of bacon.
One minute passed, and then these words I had thunk:
“Tis not through hatred of the ugly lot,
but being too happy in thy ugliness,-
That thou, star-spangled cardigan of wool,
In some melodious plot
Of patchwork art, and flags numberless (aka 2),
Singest of America the beautiful.

O for a night of celebration, that hath been
Prepared a long time on Soviet earth,
Tasting of vodka while the country’s ground goes unseen,
Dance, and parade—4 hours worth!
O for a glimpse of the good ole US of A,
Land of the free and home of the rage,
Audiences will strain their necks
To see what we wear.
While some may think, ‘man that sweater needs a cage,’
I’ll make my boyfriend wear it while we have sex.

Far far away, it’ll be hard to forget
The best Olympic sweater the world has ever known
The stars and stripes, the blue and red,
Makes me want to do anything but groan.
Where snow may break a sad, unfortunate star
Where athletes sing with tears in their eyes;
Where but to win is to be full of pride,
Admired from afar,
Your beauty represents something about America that never dies:
We’re beautiful and heinous, traits that live side by side.”