I Do Not Speak Your Language
I do not speak your language I said to the ghost.
I speak a better one, fancier than yours, fancier than most.
I speak American, taken from English and hillbilly.
Your language is stuck up, decidedly silly.
The ghost was astounded, confounded, incensed.
Old English had served him well ‘til this fence.
What is American he asked, in a haughty, snobbish way.
I immediately thought “tea time” and decided to play.
Have you not heard of the Boston Tea Party?
It was the day we took over your ship, hale and hearty.
We threw all your tea in the sea, ignoring your taxes.
He ran for his wood shed, his chains and his axes.
He came back empty handed, for he was a ghost.
Could not pick up anything, a crumb, maybe, at most.
We decided to be friends, we talked into the night.
Me and the ghost, on my lap. What a sight!
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