Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the
citizens of Periwinkle [because
all the other colors were already taken]
County:
“Apparently the thought of accordion music does not deter Bronc Ryder,” observed Dr. Nathan.
“Celestial places, no,” said Bronc. “I’m only afraid of bassoons, just like everybody else. I’ve writ a new country love song. Knew you’d want to hear it.”
Randall Nathan could not figure how Bronc figured that, but he sighed and waited while Bronc pulled a mouth bow from his saddle bag and got it in position at the side of his mouth and then gave it a twang and began to sing…
There is a girl so lovely, a girl so passing fair,
a girl with ripe and rosy cheeks, a girl with golden hair,
a girl who has a form divine, with a voice like morning dew,
but she’ll never get a man for she’s the girl with no tattoo.
She doesn’t have some neat barbed wire or the Chinese character for soup,
she doesn’t have a crucifix or the hangman’s loop,
her dermis doesn’t show a doggy’s face or a lightning bolt from God,
how will she ever get a man with no ink upon her bod?
Then he yodeled, How can she get a man if she has no cool tattoo?
She surely is a lesbian or maybe something worse,
perhaps she is a commie, or a writer of blank verse,
maybe she’s a Methodist or a Muslim or a Jew,
you can’t really hardly ever trust a girl with no tattoo.
You can’t know about her faith if it’s not written on her ass,
there’s no confession on her biceps when she goes to mass,
you don’t know if that rose is long stem or if she’s just getting older,
you can’t tell if she loves the flag unless it’s waving on her shoulder;
Yodeling again: How can we ever trust her; she’s the girl with no tattoo.
She doesn’t have a smokin’ Harley or a skull and crossbones flag,
tattooed upon love’s handle or where she’s gonna sag,
when she gets a little older and little children run in fear,
when they see the sloppy sloshing of her inky mug of beer.
Her beauty is so fraudulent, her beauty’s a mirage,
her family’s so ashamed of her she lives in the garage,
if you ever saw her, from the tenth floor you would leap,
they won’t let her out in public ‘cause her beauty’s not skin-deep.
Dr. Nathan cringed as Bronc yodled: They won’t let her out in day light ‘cause her beauty’s not skin-deep
They say it’s in the eye of the beholder, where beauty does reside,
even a girl who is a Yooper can be a blushing bride,
but it’s hard to see some beauty on skin where no one drew,
how can there be a spot of comely on a girl with no tattoo?
She claims that silver is quite lovely, and gold’s a pretty sight,
But they’re just so unreliable for they all come off at night,
ink surely is an art form, you’ve no soul without a tatt,
unless you’ve got Cupid on your buttocks you’re just Cassatt without the hat.
Jackson Pollock would have made it, but he didn’t have a tatt,
so would that Picasso guy, but his biceps were too flat,
to show a vase of flowers, or even “Mother,” dear,
instead his puny arms painted people strange and queer.
Rev. Nathan sighed, for he knew a yodel was due: She can’t write off depreciation for she has no art appreciation.
She doesn’t sport a dragon, she doesn’t have a dagger,
she wears no colored crucifix or a likeness of Mick Jagger,
she does not display Bugs Bunny or the near-sighted Mr. Magoo,
she’s the existential loser, the girl with no tattoo.
She is such a schlemiel, she is such a slob
She doesn’t have a dab of ink or even a little blob
Her victories are puny, they are so slight and tiny
for she has no inked-in puckered lips upon her undrawn heiny
Randall thought about groaning, but he was afraid Bronc would think he was joining him in his yodel: She might as well give up for she’s the girl with no tattoo
Her life’s so inefficient, her life surely blows,
when she wants to show you how she’s feeling, she has to put on clothes.
It would be much more effective for her to tell you how she felt,
if she had a toothy crocodile forever on her pelt.
She wastes time every morning as she puts stuff on,
so she has to get up early at the breaking of the dawn,
why does she feel she has to look like life’s a full buffet,
doesn’t she know it’s more efficacious to wear the same thing every day?
A crowd had begun to gather, and Carrie Okie joined Bronc on the yodel: She’s very nunchalant for she’s not in the habit.
If she were Amish they would shun her far and near,
she’d be volcanoized by Aztecs at the dawning of the year,
mad dogs and Englishmen would shove her into the freezing rain,
and even Dead Antelope hoboes would throw her unmarked hide from off the train. [1]
I must be a loser, I must be a nerd,
I’m surely the most pathetic man in this strange inky world,
I must be a crazy man who’s brain has gone coo-coo,
for I am the skin-deep lover of the girl with no tattoo.
Yodel ledde hee, you should pity me, yodel layhee.
“Whadda ya think, Rev. Randy?”
“You were right; it’s truly a country love song,” said Dr. Nathan.
***
1] Dead Antelope is a town in Periwinkle County, and also in my basement, where grandson Joe is mayor and chief engineer, and where the Dead Antelope Days Festival is celebrated each November at the opening of deer season in the UP.
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
No comments:
Post a Comment