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Fine Arts Music Scholarship/Erudition

Not Haiku

A Chat With Your Mother

by Lou and Peter Berryman

Oh, the pirates in their fetid galleons, daggers in their skivvies,
With infected tattooed fingers on a blunderbuss or two;
Signs of scurvy in their eyes, only mermaids on their minds;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

Chorus (repeated after each verse):
We sit down to have a chat,
It’s F-word this and F-word that.
I can’t control how you young people
Talk to one another,
But I don’t want to hear you use
That F-word with your mother.

There are lumberjacks from Kodiak vacationing in Anchorage,
Enchanted with their coal-tar soap and Caribou shampoo,
With seven months of back pay in their aromatic woolens;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

There’s the militant survivalists in Gucci bandoleeros,
Taking tacky khaki walkies-talkies to the rendezvous;
Trading all the latest armor-piercing ammo information;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

There are jocks who think that God himself is drooling in the bleachers,
In a cold November downpour with a belly full of brew
Their entire grasp of heaven has a lot to do with football;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

There’s unsavory musicians with their filthy pinko lyrics
Who destroy the social fabric and enjoy it when they do,
With their groupies and addictions and their poor heartbroken parents;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.



Karen Haygood, pastor at Trinity Church United Church of Christ in Northport, Michigan, also has a great version of Night Rider’s Lament, by Michael E. Burton.

[ed. note: I think every guy who’s been stuck behind a desk, day after day, year after year, to provide insurance and food for his family, watching his dreams slip away and his ass get wider, has gotten lost in this song.]


Breaking it Down, Stanza by Stanza

1st Stanza

Oh, the pirates in their fetid galleons, daggers in their skivvies,
With infected tattooed fingers on a blunderbuss or two;
Signs of scurvy in their eyes, only mermaids on their minds;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

2nd Stanza

There are lumberjacks from Kodiak vacationing in Anchorage,
Enchanted with their coal-tar soap and Caribou shampoo,
With seven months of back pay in their aromatic woolens;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

3rd Stanza

There’s the militant survivalists in Gucci bandoleeros,
Taking tacky khaki walkies-talkies to the rendezvous;
Trading all the latest armor-piercing ammo information;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

4th Stanza

There are jocks who think that God himself is drooling in the bleachers,
In a cold November downpour with a belly full of brew
Their entire grasp of heaven has a lot to do with football;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

5th Stanza

There’s unsavory musicians with their filthy pinko lyrics
Who destroy the social fabric and enjoy it when they do,
With their groupies and addictions and their poor heartbroken parents;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.

Chorus

We sit down to have a chat,
It’s F-word this and F-word that.
I can’t control how you young people
Talk to one another,
But I don’t want to hear you use
That F-word with your mother.

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