Marshal Sash Succession Ambiguity

There once was a sash in a chest
That one family guarded the best.
Fourteen years in one home
Made the bylaws all groan:
“When did storage become a bequest?”

A volunteer asked, with some class,
“Where exactly do y’all keep the sash?”
Three old members replied,
“With the marshals,” with pride,
And democracy tightened its ass.

The family kept polyester grand,
Dry-cleaned, logged, and route-wise on hand.
That’s the governance trick:
If you’re useful and slick,
Soon the fabric starts choosing command.

They insisted the cloth held no throne,
Just polyester and whistle alone.
But the archive took notes:
Where the artifact goes,
Office follows and calls it its own.

The logbook has entered a state
Where custody acts like a trait.
By year fourteen’s close,
The polyester chose
Who opens the festival gate.

They asked where the ribbon had gone.
The answer was “Gary’s front lawn.”
It saves us a trip
And a councilman’s grip
To pretend that the office moved on.

A family retained it for years.
The roster recorded no tears.
A newer man tried,
The council denied,
And nobody counted the gears.

The fabric was placed in the bin
For lineage, bloodlines, and kin.
Though just a parade,
The filing was made,
And royalty swallowed the pin.