You heard me and put a name to my songs.
Clad in the sparkling azure attire, bedraggled with splodges of mud
Hunting for witch hazel and at times ill at ease yet, I was your ilk.
Who abode in a mangy mud house with her granny.
There was a little room for a cat to swing and not a single light-switch.
Round the clock she had to keep her ear to the ground.
The overgrown crops between flapping lugholes and burning words
nourished the laborers who slogged their gut out during muggy summer days.
They made love holding the gun to the beloved’s head.
I didn’t know where I stood with that untold lore.
Hark at them! granny said.
When she muttered ‘salsa’ I didn’t have the faintest idea of it
Since I couldn’t discern between Dan and Sau.
Little did I know that she had the thespian prowess,
As she could only sing and dance about