BBC News Alert
Somewhere in France
In the Countryside
A farmer has been arrested
For molesting an old cow
A drunken old hag was on all fours
Crawling around in his field
He, having had his wine and baguette
Thought he had forgotten one cow
Off he went to fondle and milk her ****
Turned out they were as dry as prunes
The cow in English barked; get your hands off of me
To which the pour farmer replied in absolute shock
Merde! Why you cow who barks, you speak English!
How can this be?
She replied I am not a cow you blind old farmer
I am a mooing poet of sorts
I dropped my dictionary in some cow dun here
Can’t seem to tell the difference between the two
I understand replied the farmer
Like me looking at you and a cow
Was very confusing indeed
Well I shall take me leave you old blind fart
The farmer snorted
Let me cut the fence open for you
She crawled back onto the road
Whereby the farmer was arrested
(Alsace has left wing laws it seems)
For letting his cow wander
Upon the intellectual property
Of France
Emma was my granny, German born gal,
from Alsace-Lorraine, her will was homespun.
Her mom had six young children to corral -
emigrating in eighteen eighty-one.
Enduring the trip 'cross the waves alone
Pop had come early to find them a place.
With folks like hers, Emma kept up the pace -
hard-working, trust-worthy, independent.
Dark-haired beauty with a smile on her face,
my Emma could handle any event.
Written March 9, 2013
There was a girl in Alsace, France
With her bread and wine
She may go crazy
She may just learn to dance
That little girl in Alsace, France
In another world
In another time
In another world
In another time
She may go crazy from that red red wine
In her chalet on the mountain top
With champagne from her private stock
It kills her just to hear the pop
Her smile spins around nonstop
Now it's her time to shine
On the river river Rheine
She may go crazy
That little girl, I'll make her mine
And she'll be sane in no time
I left you bleeding in Alsace-Lorraine
from the dozen roses rife with thorns,
each a story meant to wound.
For not often did I tell you the truth.
In Marseilles, we drowned in wine
mixed with tears and terrible fears,
and in the shadow of a doubt
I played the sun, the future husband.
I try to forget Paris, ten thousand smiles
And songs that said I love you.
All that remains is the long cold walk
Of regret for all I’ve done.