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Many years ago, I was in a down-heartened funk, after deciding to get a little bit drunk. 

Beer guzzling queens won’t tell you, but liquor tastes bad going down and coming back up is truly no joy.

Some will tell you how great drinking liquor makes them feel, happy, and wonderful.  But they’re full of bunk

Being wasted, angry, crying, and a bit mean is no way to meet any kind of a man or dating boy

And if you are completely silly, to hug, or touch or god forbid fore take in a sloppy drunk kiss

I must tell you the story of a naïve woman who got herself in a real pickle in St. Croix

If you are already completely wasted, and angry, and mean, this warning you will probably dismiss

This sordid tale of a girl, a boy, a golden pony, a red flute that laughed, and a shiny green Shamrock

The way this tale was told to me, by my gram, it entered my ears totally unbiased and Faultless

There was a pipe, and a honey bee, and a well-intentioned, prettied up edible pink and plump Ham hock

I do remember someone laughing, and a foot being broken, and a yellow three cent postage stamp.

There was a nickel’s worth of lead, and an angry man, and a princess in a lavender and pink Frock


The men crowded around to watch Trixie Lou dance, for she was a well-known, conniving, trickster of a Vamp

In my inebriated state, I can recall but one bit of the story that has any bearing now.

Grandpa’s dream girl was a devious witch of a woman according to Big Ma, a hard-hearted Tramp

Told by Big Ma, Trixie was a flaunter, a floozy, a conniver, a flute-playing nasty old cow,

She had pink cheeks, sky blue eyes, and she wore her red curls pinned with green shamrocks; she was all kinds of pretty.

This information was slipped to me in whispers by Grandpa, who considered Trixie a giant wow.

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