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Saturday, September 03, 2011

The Husband of Mary May

I don’t talk sae good,
fur each neighbourhood
I growed up in had - howja say -
a unique turn o’ phrase
an’ a proud sense o’ place
an’ that’s thirty-eight towns, by the way.

I was born amidst burrs
of hes an’ hers
who churned their r’s like butter.
But way down south
Da’s highland mouth
made ‘im sound a proper nutter.

So from each sprawlin’ city
an’ each village, small an’ pretty,
I’d steal away a lickle bit o’ speech.
I’d hide it in me coat,
then shove it down me throat
an’ keep it nice an’ safe an’ outta reach.

Since I tried me best to learn
the speech of every town in turn,
I thought I’d fit in everywhere I’d go.
But alas! That weren’t the case
an’ every bloody place
spoke too slowly, an’ clearly told me “No”.

In the Louisiana drawl
‘neath the stinkin’ sun’s slow crawl
on a jewel-bright, steamin’ summer’s day,
I met a girl who turned me ‘ead
an’ killed me sorry tongue quite dead.
She left me speechless, an’ her name was Mary May.

Me knees were pow’rful weak.
I was all afraid to speak -
knowin’ that I’d murmur an’ I’d choke.
But she flashed that moonbeam smile
an’ in just a lickle while
me fears had drifted all away, like smoke.

An’ the clearest damn thing
that I ever did say
was “Marry me, Mary May”.

The clearest damn thing
that I ever did say
was “Marry me, Mary May”.