They are the skull and crossbones of tunes

designed for winning championships

or cheering troops.
Never rock ’n roll

they’re in the classical vein

with trombones, cymbals and flutes.
All written by the same person

or so it sounds,

whether Australia or Congo,

the bony drum-rumble

and trumpets yelling.

A poet probably added the lyrics—

those high-tone phrases for camp reverence.
However unruly a place

there is a ruly brass band on parade

presidents and footballers mouthing the worditure.

They’ll manage the first verse okay—

the one about mountains and forefathers.

After that they mumble air in forgetfulness,

pipe up again for bits of the chorus,

lay a palm or fist to their hearts.

A few slouch ‘Whatever’ like we did at school.
La Marseillaise is the best of them:

It roars barricades and slums,

a get-even swagger and violent grace,

justice’s perfect noise.

You can’t imagine Jesus whistling it,

but that’s a recommendation—

he made himself his own blood sacrifice

which was a bad sign.
The marcher’s art

is in clicked heels and buffed toes,

stiff pleats and arms swung in unison,

a vicarious war of good manners and style.

An anthem’s art is the equivalent sung:

two strangers side by side can do it

and imagine common ancestors watching over them

like parents inspecting their young,

making everyone else a foreigner

not quite good enough to belong.