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Ending in a flouncy ruffle, I married in a brown crushed velvet dress
This was 1971. Only six people were there, maybe one less.
My groom was nervous, I had sweet talked him into eloping with me.
I was confident this was the way God meant our wedding to be.

This was our second try at finding a justice of the peace.
My husband’s pants were ironed into a straight down middle crease.
He had a big hunk of dark hair that fell across his left hazel eye.
I believe I heard a secretary give a little sigh.

These people had tried to talk us out of this quickie wedding.
Strangers to us, they had a deputy give a little sing.
This was during the awful horrible Vietnam War you realize.
My groom was number thirty-eight in the draft, danger could arise.

We have been married fifty years, so things worked out rather well.
My husband never had to serve in swamps of that foreign hell.
He always says that I looked beautiful on our wedding day.
When I look at him, he is nineteen. What could be better anyway?

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