Have you the time to spend
with the quiet patriot, Robert Townsend?
He was hiding for hundreds of years,
from glories, not fears.
Time to make his acquaintance, friend.
He played with his siblings in Oyster Bay,
in the apple trees,
round Raynham way.
Eight children, and the bees,
apple blossoms,
swinging possums,
blissful, happy,
daring, scrappy.
Samuel Townsend was their Pappy.
He owned three ships,
that were well equipped,
Glasgow, Sarah, and Sally,
laden with goods to stock the galley:
beeswax, barrel staves, butter, rums,
molasses, calico, plums,
fetching quite a sum.
He sailed to England
and back, again.
Then the limeys came
and took over the manor,
waving their English banner.
They cut down
all the apple trees
and built a fort.
The Townsends cried.
Rebellion caught up in the breeze.
Captain Simcoe loved
little sister, Sally.
He gave her a valentine,
thinking her very fine.
He kissed her little hand, gloved,
knowing it impossible.
She did not think him horrible,
not at all.
He was sweet; he was tall.
It wasn’t enough.
Little Sally was very tough.
She kept him enthralled.
Our Robert met Abraham Woodhull,
at his cousin’s boarding house,
living quiet as a mouse,
playing backgammon, having a ball.
Abe whispered of Washington’s spy ring.
Robert was perfect, he’d never sing.
They used Jay’s invisible ink,
sweet Sally, the secret link.
The little queen had quite the sting.
Packed with enemy ships was Oyster Bay,
Robert Townsend gave them away.
Counterfeiters, gun boats,
anything afloat.
And, oh, Captain Townsend could ride!
Who would keep up with his secretive stride?
Paul Revere?
With the enemy by his side
Robert Townsend kept an open ear.
723
was his number, you see?
Culper Junior,
Woodhull was Senior.
What’s a name?
Another game.
Robbie hobnobbed,
snobbed,
with the braggarts
and officers,
faggots, and swaggers.
They were vain.
He was sly,
maybe Washington’s greatest spy.
After hours, he’d remain,
so near,
no beer,
keeping it clear.
What they divulged!
Fat, drunken limeys,
never a stymie,
and our Robbie let them indulge.
He told Washington all about the rangers.
Sister Sally helped,
she wasn’t a stranger.
Washington came to rely
upon the intelligence of his special spy.
Culper Junior hoped he helped.
Loyal letters,
disinformation,
getting better,
Junior passed
to Culper, there,
when he so dared,
so fast,
revelation.
Washington, himself,
humble and stealth,
knew not his true name.
Culper Junior knew no fame.
But, oh, he was good,
doing what he could,
saving the French fleet!
Secret scorpion, so neat!
Britain bought the bluff,
fake news, faker funds,
enough was enough!
Dirty spies,
in disguise,
His horse galloped across the schrunds
from Holy Ground,
the last packet,
over the sound,
wind in his jacket.
We had won, friend,
it was the end.
He had a ball,
but that was all.
He lived across the alley
with sister Sally.
Thank Robert and his sister.
You probably missed her.
So, The Royal Navy,
and all its beaus,
America’s foes,
King George, himself, maybe,
fell from his sting.
We did not want a king.
Our country’s past,
will we last?
With another Robert Townsend or two,
heroes are so few.
My tale is true.
Listen, I’ve got a secret, I do.
