There are many Sheryl
Crows. They are stored
in barrels in mountainsides
underneath shipping docks,
in the bowels of the BMG
building and the Pentagon.

Surprise, surprise, it's a Sheryl!
She has risen from the ashes
at June Carter Cash's
funeral, strumming songs,
urging singalongs,
smiling so bright
it soaks up the sun.

And, look! There's a Sheryl!
She likes race cars and candy bars
and other superstars, she strums
some songs for the fine folks
of the Academy, who I'd like to thank.

Oh say can you see a Sheryl
belting out a blood-red anthem
at the topmost of her award-winning lungs.
This one dons a cap, drops a tear,
suffers for us all.

The kitten in the tree,
the boy with the skinned knee,
Wal*Mart shoppers, bumblebees,
worry not!
Sheryl can sing, strum, Sheryl can smile. Fuck! Sheryl can fly!
A Sheryl is always
on her way,
and in your face.