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"sweah" poems
I'm a Yankee in the South Far from where I was bo-ahn, Th' other half of this Country stout, But not where I'd call home. I talk too fast and walk too fast And speak with easy grin; And every word that I say once I must repeat again! If you're black you're Black, down he-ah, and if you're white, you're White; I don't fit well, I'm mostly brown, They just don't feel it's right. I work each Sunday in the sto-ah, I do the work of three; Back home I went to Sunday Mass And Godless they call me. Godless Yank, I'm rude, I'm cold, I started the great War - (Not our Great War, you see, but one that came somewhat befo-ah). I've tried their greens, I've tried their grits, I've had biscuits n' gravy, Oh what I'd give for chowdah hot Or some lobstah tasty! I like my tea, I like it hot, Not sickly-sweet and iced, Brew it black and brew it strong - No  sweeter will suffice. Well, I'm a Yankee in the South, But I wish I'd never gone. So in a month I'll pack me up And home I'll be 'fore long! I'll eat cannolli in North End, I'll visit Fenway Pahk, I'll watch the city glow with light The minute it gets dahk. I'll roam the rivers, fields and woods, All dusted up with snow; The northern bogs, the stony beaches, That's what I call home! I never should have come, I sweah, I'll never go again; There's plenty here to tide a girl A hundred years and ten. The long-sought day has dawned at last, And now we'll sally forth, So clear and a bit chilly, it's A promise of the North. We drove and drove and drove again, And then we drove some mo-ah, We started out at ten to six, And now it's half-past **** And when I'm shovelin' the snow, Cursing potholes in the road, I'll think of all the Southern folk And smile at every load! Well we're home again, we're home at last, I won't leave anymo-ah, I've proved without a doubt there is Nuthin' to leave it **** Well, I was a Yankee in the South, It's not what I'd call nice, And now I can concretely say I wouldn't do it twice!
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Apr 30, 2016
Apr 30, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
jackie-soar
The Displaced Yankee
I'm a Yankee in the South Far from where I was bo-ahn, Th' other half of this Country stout, But not where I'd call home. I talk too fast and walk too fast And speak with easy grin; And every word that I say once I must repeat again! If you're black you're Black, down he-ah, and if you're white, you're White; I don't fit well, I'm mostly brown, They just don't feel it's right. I work each Sunday in the sto-ah, I do the work of three; Back home I went to Sunday Mass And Godless they call me. Godless Yank, I'm rude, I'm cold, I started the great War - (Not our Great War, you see, but one that came somewhat befo-ah). I've tried their greens, I've tried their grits, I've had biscuits n' gravy, Oh what I'd give for chowdah hot Or some lobstah tasty! I like my tea, I like it hot, Not sickly-sweet and iced, Brew it black and brew it strong - No  sweeter will suffice. Well, I'm a Yankee in the South, But I wish I'd never gone. So in a month I'll pack me up And home I'll be 'fore long! I'll eat cannolli in North End, I'll visit Fenway Pahk, I'll watch the city glow with light The minute it gets dahk. I'll roam the rivers, fields and woods, All dusted up with snow; The northern bogs, the stony beaches, That's what I call home! I never should have come, I sweah, I'll never go again; There's plenty here to tide a girl A hundred years and ten. The long-sought day has dawned at last, And now we'll sally forth, So clear and a bit chilly, it's A promise of the North. We drove and drove and drove again, And then we drove some mo-ah, We started out at ten to six, And now it's half-past **** And when I'm shovelin' the snow, Cursing potholes in the road, I'll think of all the Southern folk And smile at every load! Well we're home again, we're home at last, I won't leave anymo-ah, I've proved without a doubt there is Nuthin' to leave it **** Well, I was a Yankee in the South, It's not what I'd call nice, And now I can concretely say I wouldn't do it twice!
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