The Column
Constrained writing.
Scrutiny or Mutiny?
I’m just a lonely yachtsman, out here on the sea. My crew, only Scottsmen, talk Scottish about me.
Alas, English and Spanish comprise my lexicon menu, I wouldn’t have this problem if they were from a Mexican venue.
Their affection I would cherish most chiefly. Definitely without them I would perish quite briefly.
It could be just because I was previously a minister, but their talking about me sounds so deviously sinister.
Is it that I got that doorway from Sydney? Or that I went to Norway for a kidney?
Is it that I dated the sharpest violinist… after the harpist who was thinnest?
Is it that I use deodorant so cheaply and sparsely? or perhaps how incredibly deeply I love parsley?
Is it off-putting, the pigment of my clothing? Or am I only imagining this figment of loathing?
To my first mate Finis, I handed a nice cold beverage. I thought with a Guinness, some good favor I could leverage.
He said “bear witness, as the ship’s captain you’ve done beautifully. Perfect fitness for the job, which again you’ve performed dutifully.
But if you do not want our situation to worsen, my president, stop calling me a Scottish person, I’m an Irish resident.”