Drunk in Punxsutawney on that Beantown Bust Again
Me – Irish catlick working class:
mantillas, martyrs, Maynooth, Mass.
You – a literal Lutheran lass,
all pretzels, prenups, Mama Cass.
It never could have ever worked:
those ambiguities that lurked
were knees that, one day, would have jerked,
and we’d have wound up Douglas Sirked.
Your Nancy Clutter beats my Holden
(less Marlon Brando, more Karl Malden).
The pond we’re on was never golden –
winter white-out wiped out Walden.
I would have wearied of your sermons,
short Sheridans and shallow Shermans,
your Sophie Tuckers, Ethel Mermans,
poe-faced Pennsylvania Germans.
Ignore the stranger on the shore,
by Stan and Stella set no store.
Don’t give a damn what Della wore,
or Mary Tyler any more.
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