They improvise dishes, “Blockade pudding”⁠ ⁠… “Confederate fricassee,” Serve hominy grits on the Royal Derby china And laugh or weep in their cups of willow-bark tea.

Davis goes back from the riot, his shoulders stooped, The glow of speech has left him and he feels cold. He eats a scant meal quickly and turns to the endless Papers piled on his desk, the squabbles and plans, A haggard dictator, fretting the men he rules And being fretted by them. He dreams, perhaps, Of old days, riding wild horses beside his wife Back in his youth, on a Mississippi road. That was a good time. It is past. He drowns in his papers.