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.