Sunday, July 09, 2006

Continuing from my first post, this is an excerpt from Book 2 of In the Harvest ov Nations. One of the survivors of a nuclear war, now wandering with a "tribe" of other survivors, tells this story of a misadventure of his. It is written in a Black-bluesy dialect, as a traditional ballad.

Book 2: Passaj

Way down in the vally, wut did I see?
But an old time sitty lookin down at me.
An thare waz bildings tall az mountens,
Houzes strung like hills
An nobuddy wokkin in that plase
But a debbel lookin for thrills.
    An nobuddy wokkin in that plase
    But a debbel lookin for thrills.

Me, I started runnin thru allys and avvenus
Throwin rocks and swarin an belloin like a moos.
I waz lookin for gold and jewwels
An sum hunny tu lay her down.
How did a raskal fool az me
Evver escape from that town?
    How did a raskal fool az me
    Evver escape from that town?

Then the debbel wisperd: "Yur my man!" he sed.
I figgurd he'd give me powwers, or maybe take my hed!
My hart, she waz a-thumpin,
But that boy, he dissappeerd
An the plase waz filld with peepel,
An me, I held thair Spere!
    The plase waz filld with peepel
    An I held the only Spere!

Why did a fool raskal get that awfull Spere?
Wichevver way Ide poin it, crowds would shout: "Not heer!"
I thru it down in anger,
And all them fantems fell.
My hart thumd loud az a drumbeat
Az I hytaild outa hell.
    Yeah, my hart bangd loud az a drumbeet
    Az I beet it outa hell.

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